Like Deeply Embedded Things Do
by Mira-Jade
Summary: "Beware the monsters in the mist . . . and the weight that links your minds." On the planet of Serillious, when negotiations go wrong, the crew of the Enterprise must work against the clock in order to retrieve one of their own.
1. where our journeys have brought us

**"like deeply embedded things do"**

**Genre**: Romance, Angst  
**Rating**: PG  
**Time Frame**: Four years post ST XI  
**Characters**: Uhura/Spock, Kirk, McCoy, OCs

**Summary**: "Beware the monsters in the mist . . . and the weight that links your minds." On the planet of Serillious, when negotiations go wrong, the crew of the _Enterprise_ must work against the clock in order to retrieve one of their own.

**Notes**: So, here we have it - that Serillious fic that I have been talking about for seemingly _ever_. This started off as a oneshot in my Burn-verse (which is pretty much every Spock/Uhura piece I have ever written), but it quickly grew long enough to stand as a short story (which will be done in seven parts, updated daily), as many plot bunnies from that series seem to do. As always, this story deals with heavy sci-fi themes, and explores in depth the mental bond between Spock and Uhura - and I would sure love feedback as to how that went over. ;)

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, but for the words.

* * *

**Part I: "where our journeys have brought us"**

_The first time Nyota knows what she wants to do with her life she is seven years old; and on the vacation planet of Carii II with her family._

_Prior to that day, she had known of her father's career in name only, rather than in any form of more acute understanding or awareness. Moumbwa Uhura was an interpreter used by inter and outer planetary Ambassadors; used for his skills to not only decipher words; but motives and emotion both. While a computer could easily translate the words, it was not yet capable at reading behind the spoken thought – a reason interpreters would never fully be out of use. Her father was an empathetic soul, with a background in psychology and the science of body language as well – all of which made him an asset to those he assisted._

_At the time, Nyota had only understood that he translated languages for others. It was something that excited her curiosity, in that way that children adored what made and defined their parents._

_Carii II was a vacation world on the crossing point of almost a dozen space lanes. Thus so, its capitol was a bustling collection of street vendors that proudly showed their goods to tourists and fellow traders and suppliers alike. The market was open to the violet sky above, and was perfectly nestled at the foot of the Makashu mountains beyond. Above the gray and sepia peaks, breaking above the clouds Makashu's twin floating range was swirls of pine green and ice, drawing her eye in awe. The scents surrounding her reminded her of her grandmother's home on Coruri; jungle spice and sea salt and tangy air . . ._

_Akilah Uhura, her mother, had been haggling with a Bajorian trader. When her limited experience with the language clashed with the vendor's refusal to speak Standard (a popular bargaining trick), Moumbwa cut in and brought the price down to something reasonable for his wife._

_"Akit l'vou mei no kirousin," Moumbwa thanked the man as he wrapped up their purchase, pleased._

_From her position perched upon her father's shoulders, she parroted, "Akit l'vou mei no kirousin," perfectly._

_The Bajarian man looked at her for a moment before laughing a loud and deep laugh. "The young one knows our tongue too?" he asked in Standard._

_"Not a word of it," Moumbwa said, darting a glance up at her with obvious pride. "She's a fast learner, though."_

_"A natural," the large man mused. He looked down at his selection of jewelry and picked up a small pair of polished white stones. They reminded her of sea sand. "Here - for the child. Maybe in a few years she can hold her own when we chat."_

_She was all but beaming when her mother reached up to put the earrings in for her. "You have a gift, child," was her mother's deep voice, rumbling and comforting at her ear. "Cherish that."_

_She touched the earrings proudly with a finger as her father thanked the vendor. As they turned to leave, the swirl of different tongues around them sounded like applause as she asked her father to translate as many as he knew._

_It was a beginning, in more ways than one._

_._

.

Nyota Uhura finds herself in a middle of sorts, years later.

After almost three years aboard the _Enterprise_ as her Chief Communication's officer, she has heard a great deal of the tongues known to the galaxy at large and quite a few more that weren't so well known. And so, when the _Enterprise_ was ordered by Starfleet command to break course to stop by the planet of Serillious, she treated the mission like every other.

She downloaded the literary journals and courses known to the Xenolinguistic community on the Serillion language, and practiced the vowels and syllables and slurs of their tongue. The language was one near and dear to her after she started learning it. As a hive kind, the language was half unspoken, relying on mental conversation and ornate body language to tell the whole of its stories. She has worked with hive languages from Beein to Logamari; and even spent two months with Professor Robanov in Starfleet's Moscow division to lecture on her findings on the world of Joopus and how that hive tongue worked in accord with languages like High Vulcan and the deceased Ancient Betazoid tongue.

Kirk's smiles at her uttering the frankly guttural language under her breath when the going was slow, and his mimicking the languages with teasing eyes was brought to a halt when Spock took it upon himself to try to translate and 'correct' the Captain's gibberish. While Kirk later mumbled, however fondly, about a joke going straight over his First Officer's head, she smiled secretly when she felt Spock's amusement at the bond that connected their minds. Sometimes, he was not as oblivious as Kirk thought him, so much as he held straight to his own brand of humor.

By the time they reached Serillious she felt herself competent enough to assist her crew in dealings on the world below. And a part of her was even excited to compare this world to the ones like it before – she was becoming quite proficient in this portion of linguistics; and a part of her tossed around the idea of diving into it fully after her service with Starfleet as an officer was done.

The planet of Serillious was medium sized, a gleaming midnight green orb that spoke of its unending jungles and mountains - mountains that held stores upon stores of Dillithium ore. All of the Federation's – and other mining guild's attempts – to ease their way into mining rights on Serillious had came up empty handed. Lately, reports in the area showed everything from Orion to Andorian in the form of smugglers and less savory merchants who wouldn't stop at stooping low to achieve their aim.

Under the light of the recent unsavory conduct, the Federation was going to renew their offer to aide Serillious – giving protection in the hopes of evenly distributing the wealth to be found there; or preserving it completely untouched within Serillious' depths, depending on which coarse of action was deemed the best to take.

To do so, the crew of the _Enterprise_ was to make contact with the ruling clan, and arrange the allowance of official representatives and delegates on the planet to make a more permanent transition. By that time, the name of James T. Kirk was fast becoming a respected one in the galaxy – on the battlefield, and in the diplomat's arena, as well.

For Nyota, the situation proved an interesting possibility to study the hive dialect that both clans on Serillious used – the Serillios, and the Rillions, respectively. The Serillios were a haughty race, keeping to giant floating cities that hovered over the mountains beneath. Of the whole, they were the ones welcoming the contact; and the expansion. The Rillions were a forest dwelling, harsh race; of whom admittedly little was known. Local lore had it said that the race was nearly mad from their time so close to the planet's surface – and within. The high levels of dillui gasses in the air made for an almost drugging soup in the lower atmosphere that would muddle with the mental make-up of most sentient beings.

It was with all of this in consideration when their party (Her, Spock, Jim and McCoy) beamed down to the capitol city – a marvelous floating platform that hovered in shades of gold and green glass in the sky - called Sarill. They were greeted by the Counselor of the Serillios – while the Serillios and the Rillions both were a hive minded race, the higher beings on the planet sought to step away from that part of their heritage, and had a loose, almost suggestive form of government.

"Greetings," the alien man said in a thick and heavily accented Standard. He was a tall man – a good three feet taller than even Spock, with long elegant limbs held together by backwards joints. The weight that wasn't held by his backwards frame was braced by two large, fluttering wings. The wings were insect like, glittering iridescent in the evening sun, and threaded through by numerous violet veins. The rest of the man was a rich shade of olive green, set off by large oval shaped eyes, devoid of pupils, and a head full of braided black hair. When he moved the earthen tones of his body seemed almost hollow and transparent, letting the light shine through him for an elegant and graceful sight.

He was definitely one of the most interesting species she had seen in her travels, Nyota reflected as Kirk carried on with the pleasantries.

While her eyes were struck with the sight that he – Llious, he called himself – gave, her ears were full of the sounds of his speech - Both his, and his heavy Standard; and his consorts, who spoke Serillion with a tepid, hissing sort of tongue. While she could hear them speak, she could also _feel_ the remnants of their words press in against her mind – the advantages with her having a telepath's presence in her psyche so often, she knew. She could feel the fringes of the hive communication, and it fascinated her.

At her side, she could feel Spock's hidden amusement at her giddiness over the highs and the lows of language surge was learning, and she flashed him a burst of fond annoyance over their bond.

They had been led by their guide into a large circular chamber held up by towering glass columns, with a ceiling that glittered like stars against a forest green shade of glass. Sheer drapes billowing gracefully as they tantalizingly let in the view of the mountains and forests below. Before them were a dozen delicacies on golden platters, and a rich brew of fermented juice – like wine, but not – set out in ornate goblets. She nibbled on a fruity pastry – not unlike a tart – and avoided the wine for the time being.

After the pleasantries were out of the way, Kirk and the Chancellor settled down to business.

"So, what you are saying," Kirk said, his brow furrowed as his mind tried to puzzle through the challenge before him. "Is that you haven't allowed outside contact in the mountains because it is inaccessible?"

"In a way," Llious answered, tilting his head.

"In what way?" Kirk pushed.

"The mountains themselves give off a sort of . . . mist, if that is the right word. Within these mists there is a high concentration of dilliu gasses as a combination of ores from the ground and the gases found present in our atmosphere."

"So breathing masks won't work?" Kirk asked.

Llious hesitated. "They would – for a time."

Kirk frowned. "What about your people? You are sitting on a fortune down there? Why haven't you put yourselves on the map with this?"

"It is not only _our_ planet," Llious said softly.

Understanding lit Kirk's eyes. "So . . . the Rillions?" he asked. "Why are they not here today? I thought that these meetings would be attended with a representative from both parties."

"The Rillions are . . . disinclined to come out of their mountains."

Kirk's lips tightened in what she had come to recognize as annoyance. "This is deciding the future of their world," he pointed out. "As well as yours."

"And no definite opinions are being made," Llious said, pointedly.

Behind Llious, a younger member of his group growled out, "Like those savages would leave their holes for anything."

Llious shot the young one a pointed look. "Silence," he hissed. "Your opinions do not matter here."

"And neither should our counterparts," the other returned. "They are all one step away from madness. You know as well as I that any attempts to speak rationally with a subject such as this will only result in the spilling of blood."

Llious' eyes narrowed, but that statement he did not counter.

After the younger Serillio spoke, she could feel a curious buzzing against her mind. The telepathic cloud was thick and fragrant against her senses – beyond them, there was a whole other conversation going on between the Serillios. She fought the urge to smile widely at it, and for a moment she hesitantly tried to reach out and tap into the mental communication.

The mist billowed tantalizingly around her weak mental touch, but it wouldn't give to her. Still, she basked in feeling the fringes of it around her senses.

When Llious broke from the hive mind, he looked curiously over at her, but he did not say a word to her clumsy attempts.

"Madness?" Kirk questioned after a moment's debating with himself.

Llious took a deep breath. "Our brethren have always been a strong breed – and proud. This pride and ruthlessness, when combined with the fumes they reside in . . . They are half-mad. A warring tribe already, with the mists playing on and amplifying those outrages . . . No. It is not wise for anyone to venture near the surface."

Kirk frowned. "From your reports there have been numerous sightings of offworld ships on the forest level. How does that add up?"

Llious smiled; a sharp flash of white teeth that was more predatory than amused. "Captain, in those reports, how many of those ships left with their crew whole and alive?"

Kirk was not to be deterred. "Is there any way that we can arrange a meeting with a Rillion leader? If we are to speak on friendly terms with your world – I would prefer it to be _all_ of your world."

Llious regarded him for a long moment. "I do not know, Captain. Relations between our two clans have been strained. I can issue an invitation, but I can guarantee no results."

"An effort is all I ask," Kirk said.

"Then one shall be made," Llious bowed his head.

.

.

"Well, if that wasn't a load of horse manure, then I don't know what is," McCoy was saying not long afterward.

The four officers had been given a suite of rooms within the ruling housing. Where the four sleeping chambers intersected, there was a common room with plush couches and rich furs over the glass like material that composed the floor. The rooms granted them a sweeping view of the city below, and she sat by the window to peer out as a child would, her fingers leaving prints against the glass as she looked around. In her left ear she held an earpiece, replaying the recording she had taken from earlier, and analyzing it in her mind; matching up the native speech with the one she had been practicing.

McCoy was pacing near the center cluster of seating, where Kirk had sprawled out on his back, his arms crossed over his chest and his fingers thoughtfully tapping his chin. Spock sat stiffly on one of the more severely structured chairs, a PADD held out before him as he already started analyzing the samples he had taken from the atmosphere.

Kirk shrugged at the Doctor's words. "I truly have no idea if it's a line they're feeding us or not. They obviously don't want to have anything to do with the surface world – and my guess is that they are tolerating our presence as a whole to cease the unwelcome attention they've been getting lately."

"Until the last few standard year cycles, Serillious as a whole has managed to stay out of galactic attention," Spock said thoughtfully. "Even raiders and the Mining Guild have avoided this world."

Kirk looked over at his First Officer. "Did they finally stumble over something they weren't aware of before?" he questioned.

Spock blinked, his eyebrows knotting in the human equivalent of a shrug. "It is hard to say, Captain. It would require more time and research to ascertain just how and why the whole of Serillious' potential in Dillithium was found out."

"It looks like we may just have a bit of that on our hands," McCoy muttered.

Kirk smiled over at his friend, bemused. "You could have stayed on the ship, Bones."

McCoy snorted. "And let you catch a bout of Serillii Fever without me nearby? Unlikely."

Kirk rubbed at the side of his neck. "If all of those hypos you managed to set on me don't protect me against that, then something tells me you weren't doing your job right in the first place."

"If not Serilli Fever, then whatever scars that are bound to occur from you not managing to hold off danger better than a magnet."

"It's part of my charm," Kirk said ruefully. "What can I say?"

"If that is how you want to put it," McCoy drawled.

Kirk shook his head before sitting up slightly, enough to look over at her. "Uhura, did you pick up anything from the rest of Llious' entourage?"

She frowned, pressing the earpiece more securely against her ear. "For the most part, it is just as you heard – most are uneasy with the Rillion clans, and some were outright disagreeing with Llious for seeking aid of any kind."

"So, nothing more than we didn't know?" Kirk asked.

She shook her head. "But . . . on top of their bias against the Rillions, there was a real unease that colored their words as a whole. It was all over their body language." A flush of visible veins, and a twitch of wings. A tightening of the corner of lips and a narrowing of eyes. All of these things spoke as loudly as words.

Kirk nodded. "That's not too surprising either."

Spock spoke at that. "Their case of dillui poisoning would not be too far off the mark," he admitted. "Even this far up in the atmosphere, and the generated atmosphere that regulates the gases over Sarill, there are traces of dillui gases in the air. It would stand to reason that the closer one would get to the dillithium, the more intense that portion would be."

"Dillui poisoning," Kirk tried the name out on his tongue. "What exactly is that?"

"In a human being, it would cause partial to whole paralysis, hallucinations, and an induction of an almost dream like state. Permanent exposure would mutilate the nervous system over a time. And yet, for a while dillui gases were found in a less intense, powder form as 'moondust' – a rather popular narcotic amongst Earth's population for a time."

"I remember that stuff from college," McCoy admitted. "Nasty stuff."

Kirk made a face. "Never tried it."

"Trust me – the high is not worth it. And it leaves you with a headache larger than the state of Mississippi in the end."

Kirk looked over at Spock. "How would this effect a more alien system – say the Serillion body?"

"Physiological information of the Serillion race as a whole is rather limited," Spock admitted. "And from what data is gathered, I would hazard to wager an intensification of physio makeup."

"Meaning?" Kirk prompted.

"Prolonged exposure to the dillui gases, combined with gases already native to the atmosphere here would result in greater strength, greater flexibility and agility, and faster mental capability in a Rillion form as opposed to a Serillio. This heightened mental aptitude would be lost, in a way, under the rages and emotional imbalance that would be suffered through as well."

Kirk made a face. "Sounds like fun."

"Except not so much so, Captain," Spock said.

"That's what I meant, Spock." Kirk looked amused. "And yet, we won't know for sure until we meet them. And something tells me an answer won't reach us tonight."

He turned to McCoy, who suddenly looked wary over the look Kirk was giving him. "So, Bones, why don't we see what sort of nightlife this city has to offer?"

McCoy scowled. "Dammit Jim, I'm a Doctor – not a wingman."

Kirk sprang up, and clapped the Doctor on the back on the way to his room. "And someday I may just start believing that."

Spock watched the two humans continue to bicker, before raising a brow and turning over to her. "Completely illogical," he muttered, shaking his head in the barest of motions.

She grinned, widely. "Someday McCoy will learn to just not fight it. Kirk can be like quicksand – the more you fight, the quicker you sink."

"An apt comparison," Spock finally gave.

She got to her feet, and walked over to him, smiling widely. "And yet Kirk may not have such a bad idea. I'd love to hear the local's speak this tongue – so, what do you say to a night out?"

His face was completely impassive, but she could 'feel' his long-suffering sigh against her mind. "I believe that I am starting to share . . . empathy with the Doctor."

"A truly frightening thought," she teased.

"Indeed," Spock agreed, completely straight faced, but she could feel the threat of amusement against her mind, only for her to glimpse.


	2. echo like so, above and below

**II: "echo like so, below and above"**

They receive their answer from the Serillos early the next morning – early enough so that the sun was just starting to break over the city, turning green glass gold; and early enough that the boys knew well enough to stay away from her coffee until she was good and caffeinated.

The speed and the result of their contact with the Rillions made her wonder if they hadn't even bother asking before delivering their decision, and apparently she wasn't the only one thinking so. When Kirk informed them that no move would be made without the cooperation of _all_ of Serillious' residents, there was more time before a response was given. The space of almost a day. During that day, she and Spock took to seeing the city, basking in the odd sort of alien wonders around them. From flying acrobats, to choral chimes that sounded on the streets and the markets filled with spices and exotic delicacies.

The whole of the time, she listened to the bustle of the language around her, trying to adjust herself to its odd lilt and syntax. The mental weight of the world was heavy, pushing against her bond with Spock, making her feel as if she were reaching for the surface from beneath a vast depth of water. The sensation fascinated her, and every so often, she'd push back at the feeling, wondering if she could tap any more fully into the hive mind.

Spock noticed her efforts, but did not partake in them himself. Mental bonds were private and selective, and the roar of voices was as invasive to him as the idea of it was seductive to her.

Near the evening of the second day, Kirk called them back to 'base' as he took to calling it. The Captain was in the common room of the suite, sitting up straight and rigid on one of the low slung sofas with a brooding look on his face.

She raised a brow, but quelled her questions – any time Kirk had _that_ look on his face, a serious form of contemplation, it meant that he was in the mindset he reached only when he was leading through the most tricky situations. She felt Spock's curiosity about the Serillio's answer, and mirrored it with her own.

By the time the McCoy arrived as well, and they all sat down, she was ringing her hands together on her lap, anxious to hear what Kirk had learned.

"The Rillion's," Kirk started, looking at them all from over his steepled fingers. "have agreed to meet with us. M'aarcus – that's the name of the Rillion representative – knows enough Standard to say the basics. For anything more, Spock should be able to program the translators to assist us." Kirk looked very seriously at her. "But, if we are going down there, I would like to have a live interpretation that I can trust completely. Tell me, how is your Serillion coming along?"

Nyota paused a moment before answering. "The syntax of the language mirrors the hive languages I studied before, and I was able to converse with the locals here well enough. But those were simple platitudes – any true communication would have to be done on a more base level."

Kirk frowned. "You mean psychically?"

"Of a sort," she gave, trying her best to think of how to answer the question. "The Serillos have a hive consciousness, but they don't depend on it wholly for communicating. The Rillion's however . . ."

"Would almost entirely depend on it," Kirk finished for her.

"Precisely," she agreed.

Kirk paused a moment before speaking. "The Serillos anticipated this . . . and they have provided an answer of a sorts, if you are willing to hear it."

Her interest was piqued. "What did they say?"

"They have a Rillion prisoner here on Serill – a man named J'lius who has been 'rehabilitating' himself away from the mists. He is willing to show you the basics of the hive mentality in exchange for a chance at living as a Serillio."

She blinked at that news, her mouth falling open once before closing again. "You have to realize that it would take months – years even, to properly examine the language and their usage of it properly."

Kirk smirked. "I've seen you with new dialects on just one day missions, Lieutenant." He rubbed at the back of his head. "Trust me, you can do more than most with five days at your disposal."

"Five days?"

"And then we meet with the Rillion leader. On their turf."

This is where McCoy frowned. "Wait a second, you mean down on the forest level?"

"It's the only way they agreed to meet," Kirk said. "We'll talk with M'aarcus, and if he likes what he hears, he and a portion of his people will agree to meet alongside the Serillos at a neutral location."

McCoy rubbed at his temples. "Damned politics," he muttered.

"It certainly isn't our forte," Kirk agreed. "But, after we get the proceedings rolling, official representation from the Federation and the Guilds will pick up for us. I am not sure whether or not we will be asked to stay on as a gesture of goodwill. But, for now, our names mean that the people of this world are inclined to listen."

"Big damn heroes," McCoy shook his head.

Kirk smirked. "Something like that." He turned to Spock. "I'm sure that you can have the translators and the breathing masks ready by that time?"

"Yes, Captain."

"J'lius agreed to meet with you after the morning passes," Kirk said to Nyota again. "Will you be ready by then?"

Nyota nodded. "Yes, Captain."

"And don't worry about it too much – apparently, Llious already said that you were curiosity poking around at the hive mind when we met."

Her cheeks flushed. "I have no idea what you are talking about," she said neutrally.

"I'm sure you don't," Kirk drawled.

.

.

She spent the hours until she met her Rillion contact immersed in her language courses. This new dialect was like a fine wine on her tongue, and she eagerly sipped at it more and more, determined to learn its highs and lows for her own. Spock sat with her while he did his work, his face blanked, but his mind against her bemused at the simple enjoyment she derived from her work.

If he was concerned, he did not show it. And past a carefully worded, "Show care in how much you touch the hive mind," he did not say anything.

She took the warning to heart either way. The only reason she was able to glimpse the fringes of the bond that connected this planet together was because of the bond she shared with Spock. And that was something intense and all invasive. All too easily such mental attachments could be misused or misinterpreted.

By the time she was escorted down to the lower levels of the ruling complex, Spock and a guard in tow, she was rolling her weight on the balls of her feet as she walked in order to quell the excited energy she had building inside of her.

When she peered into the cell she saw a man who looked like every other Serillio she had seen . . . only not. He was sitting in a stiffbacked chair, his hands palm up and chained to the table before him. Across from him there were two other chairs, and the recorder she had asked for. She took a moment to simply look at him, comparing him to the other Serillis she had seen . . .

In the end, there were few things about him to mark him as different. He was absent of wings. Instead he had high and proud shoulder-blades that sloped gracefully from his back. His ill fitting tunic did little to disguise the difference. His skin was darker than the Serillios – a shade of green so deep that it looked both sepia and black in turns. The light glinted off almost scaly skin. Over the skin were small ornate patterns done in a dark shade of kohl – most of which looked as if they had been scraped and scrubbed away, leaving raw pink patches of skin. She wondered it the marks were natural or a ritual.

The backwards limbs and the great mass of dark hair was the same. And yet, his eyes . . . His eyes were very large, and very deep, dominating the most of his slopping features. They were dark – blacker than pitch and night skies and the empty parts of space. They reminded her of Spock's . . . just less. They seemed almost glazed over as they stared at her, calmly weighing her.

She raised her hand, and tried out the greeting she had been practicing. _"N'ming ho idewa."_

The thin lips stretched slightly, a crackle of a smile upon them. "You speak through your nose, Hatchling," he said rather than return her greeting. "But your pronunciation is flawless."

He did not give her the benefit of Standard, and her mind whirled as she tried to recall her words and translate them. When she said her greeting again, through her roof of her mouth and whistled through her teeth – like a hiss – as the man before her did, the Rillion's smile grew.

"Yes, you will do quite well."

She stepped forward, and he shifted, as if he would stand to greet her as an equal before remembering the restraints that forced him in a sitting position.

"J'Lius," he introduced himself, holding one hand up as far as his bindings would allow in an almost mocking manner. "Of the R'theen clan."

"Formerly," one of the guards behind her sneered.

She darted a glance behind her, but said nothing to the clan rivalry as she took a seat. Behind her, Spock was a cool and comforting presence, his face blank and his eyes cold. At the back of their bond, his mind was curious, as was hers.

"Nyota Uhura," she replied in kind. "Of Earth."

"Earth," he said, the word slurred out curiously on his tongue. "You are many stones away from your home, Hatchling."

"I find that home tends to follow me," she allowed herself to say.

"Wise words," he inclined his head. He looked at her curiously. "You speak our tongue well, already."

"It's my job," she answered simply. "I study language."

"You fit your calling," he said. "In more ways than one." He leaned forward, and she could feel his mind heavy on the air around them, almost as if he was reaching out out of habit to connect with her. His species did not survive on their own – but on wholes. She had no physic abilities past what she shared with Spock, and it was frustrating to be aware of a higher plane of existence, and being unable to touch it.

"You worry needlessly," J'lius muttered. "Already the hive can sense you."

She raised an eyebrow, as Spock did as well.

"Yes," J'lius nodded his head. "You will do very well. Very well indeed."

.

_._

_Apply your accents and your slurs. What is ugly to you is treasured to another. In each tongue there is an art to find. You are as a painter before a canvas that is already half filled. Learn to mimic the form of the master who started before you . . ._

She spent her next days in fervent study, while the rest of her team immersed themselves in negotiations and other affairs that would need to be completed before meeting with the Rillions.

Often she would sit in the small cell with J'lius and try her hand at his language while Spock would sit next to her with a PADD in his hand, trying to accomplish her own work.

In the end, she was skilled in harnessing the tongue she strove to learn, if not in the more mental aspects of the language – no matter how much J'lius assured her that the hive could hear her, she still worried about her being able to pull off that aspect of the translation. Sometimes, human failings were something she could not triumph over, as much as neatly work around.

Her diction improved quickly – even though the harsh language often left her out of breath, holding it high in her mouth on a permanent exhale. The sensation was like the lightheadedness she felt after blowing up too many balloons the hard way.

J'Lius showed her some exercises to strengthen the little used muscles in her mouth – and she was grateful for the trained vocal cords she already possessed.

She would not be talking the whole of the proceedings – so much as translating, so often J'Lius would just chatter about anything and everything, trying to see how fast her mind could keep up and even connect with his. The unintentional bond – as habitual to him as breathing was a fascinating experience for her.

She smiled when she recognized the epic poetry that he was quoting – which she had read in the journals before reaching Serillious – and J'Lius had actually smiled in pride when she finished his verse for him.

Her diction improved – but it was the mental plane that the Rillions primarily used. Functioning as a whole, their thoughts were open and magnified times the whole of the clan. Decisions and conversations were split second things, their frontal lobes so advanced that they could link and function at speeds that a human mind simply couldn't compete with.

When at the end of the second day she let J'Lius take her hands in his to try to drive her into the hive, she entered the mental plane with a feeling of anticipation and trepidation.

She touched it fully for only a few moments – enough to feel the muddled lonliness that J'Lius felt away from his hive, and enough to feel the remnants of his clan, so far away, still reaching out on reflex for him. She felt the weight of minds that was the Serillios, all of which who used only the surface of the meld – refusing the ancient urge to dive deeper and thrive as a whole.

She felt J'Lius' calm acceptance of his fate, and the curiosity that he held for her – her mind was the closest he could come to feeling what he had lost, and his fascination took on a base level as the hive embraced her and sought out her highs and lows to fill what was missing in itself . . .

It was Spock's hand on hers, breaking the drugging connection that brought her back to herself. His gaze was blank, but hard – just as J'Lius' was thoughtful.

"Again, Hatchling?"

.

_._

_Take the root, add the adjectives; subject follows verb, and follow on so in this form. She has studied more complex languages before, but they were wholly spoken. Not felt as this was . . ._

She felt her hands twitch from where she had them clasped with J'Lius. His squeezed once over hers, and his mind against hers was less invasive so much as it shared a mental plane with her. It was an odd feeling – loosing sense of self to survive within a whole.

"You improve quickly," he said, his eyes glinting, and his mouth curved thoughtfully. Already she could tell emotions on what she had previously thought to be a blank face. "And yet, that should be enough for today. You will tax your mind if you work too hard."

She thought briefly of all night study sessions – of Gaila putting on pot after pot of coffee and parroting odd sounding languages to her to see how her tongue worked over the fast and quick syllables, and let herself smile at the thought.

.

_._

_Listen to the silences as well as the words. Watch the body for a language of its own . . ._

She asks him on their second to last day if he misses his home on the surface.

He paused for a moment, and answered her in a soft, harsh tone. "I was not always of the mountain clan," he admitted. "Once I lived on one of the smaller of the skycities, quite a few leagues from here."

"Really?"

"I was a jingsu – a go-between when it came to supplying goods between the floorclans and the skyclans. I had a bondmate, I had my own hatchlings, even, though they are long grown and gone by now. I was taken when there was . . . there was bad blood in one of the transitions, and I found myself forfeit for the error."

"They forced you to stay?" she questioned.

J'lius hesitated before answering. "After little time, it is impossible to call one's self a prisoner when in the mountain levels, Hatching. The mists are strong and powerful; and the Rillions only keep those dubbed as Potential. The hive sees what it is missing, and it will take persons who will fill a whole to in turn make the hive function more smoothly. It only takes a few shifts of the moon for one to feel as if they belong. After that, it is hard to leave."

She frowned as she digested that, tapping her stylus against the table. "So, there is no freewill within the hive?"

"Of a sort . . . One grows comfortable within the mists, and the sense of belonging to a whole . . . It is at times more intoxicating than the mists themselves. I . . . I miss it still, at times, even being so far displaced from them."

His shoulders rolled elegantly as he tried to express himself; if he still had his wings, she knew that they would have fluttered in a sign of frustration. (Today, he had worn no restraints, and she had seen the angry red scars on his shoulder-blades that spoke to what had been taken from him.) Across the table, her hands in his tightened, just barely at the thought that crossed her mind – for him to see as well.

.

_._

_And finally, do not forget your own while you immerse yourself in another's . . ._

They spent their last day reviewing everything they had learned.

For the most part, it was her speaking and him listening. He was quite, seemingly lost in thought as he scented the air subtly, his large eyes regarding her with a curiosity that still made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Pausing for only a moment, he told her, "My brothers will listen. But, watch yourself, Hatchling. Away from the mists I may conquer the fever of my kind . . . I may grant myself control. Yet, in the mists, what prompts them to listen to you may also prompt them to take."

The words echoed with a hollow warning as she felt them echo inside of her mind. She clasped her hands together, and smiled softly as she thanked J'lius for his time – and his warnings. He was silent as she left, his large eyes following her until they could no more.

That night, she dreamed in gold.

The memories were not hers, but the sensations were her own as she rode the high and whole of them. She dreamed of wind, and sunlight bright and blinding as she rose up into it. She dreamed of the pleasant burn of muscles that let her rise further and further from the ground, and the flutter of an alien consciousness that bid her not to go too high or too far . . .

The dream was obscured by mist, thick and billowing, cutting in and around, obscuring her view and taking her skies from her.

The dreams were not her own, but she still awakened with his cry on her lips, her fingers burrowing in the sheets, and her heart hammering until her pulse beat against her wrist like a caged bird.

At her side, Spock was already awake, looking at her with concern in his eyes. Against the back of their bond, he was subtly prodding, seeing the remnants of the memories that were not her own.

It took a moment for understanding to set it, and when it did, it was unsettling. "Spock, it was only a dream," she said softly.

"It was _his_ dream," he returned.

She bit her lip, casting concerned eyes down on her hands. They still trembled. "It'll just be for a few more days, Spock . . . Then we'll be gone, and I can clear my mind."

"Of certain things, the mind shouldn't be burdened with to begin with," Spock pointed out gently.

She narrowed her eyes. "It is not a burden – just an unforeseen side effect."

"One that you will continue to endanger yourself with," Spock said, his voice soft, but pointed.

"I'm doing my job to the best of my ability," she countered. "Sometimes, that means shouldering an extra burden."

Spock was silent for a moment. "I do not like his presence within yours. I do not like the hive as a whole – when it is surrounding you, at any rate. It is neither logical or safe for you to endanger yourself so."

His concern was tangible to her mind. His concern, and his worry.

She leaned over to take his hands within her own. "Trust me, Spock, I know what I am doing. Nobody will be hurt by this – and in the end, I'll be able to help even more so."

His gaze had not altered, his concerns were still present. "Tread carefully," he gave one last admonishment. "

She smiled wryly. "I always do."

He snorted softly, but his eyes were fond when he turned from her.

She quelled the urge to throw a pillow at him. When she rose to get ready to meet the day, her smile was bright with anticipation, no matter the whispers of warning at the back of her mind.


	3. should you be parted from me

**Part Three: "should you be parted from me"**

The next day dawned early and bright, sun streaking through the windows to their quarters like a whisper, and the chimes from the city below echoing in an alien song as the wind passed through the hollow chutes and planes of the floating platform.

Spock was already up before her, as he often was; yet there was a crease in his brow as he meditated. She watched him carefully as she got her coffee for the morning, feeling nothing against their bond except for the haze she normally felt when he was in his trances.

Shaking her head, she went about getting ready for her day as if it were any other.

It wasn't until they were almost ready to depart that Spock finally voiced what was on his mind. "If you can, you would be wise to stay as close to the security deployment as possible," Spock cautioned her as she smoothed out the wrinkles in her uniform.

Nyota raised a brow. "I can take care of myself, you know," she said softly.

"Of your physical prowess I have no doubt, and yet, we are not dealing with a normal situation at present."

She smiled ruefully. "What would normal on the _Enterprise_ constitute as?" she asked playfully.

Spock did not find the humor in her statement. "Please promise me that you will use caution."

He said please. And he asked for a promise. Both were unnecessary additions to a conversation when the speaker trusted his recipient to appreciate the care and consideration that was behind his words, and illogical as so. He already spoke the truth and asked the same from her – please was not necessary, or expected. He asked for a promise. Promises were in of themselves emotional, seeing as no future could be guaranteed.

But she could read the worry in his eyes . . . that he strove to hide at the back of their bond.

"I'll be careful," she vowed, locking eyes with him.

He held her gaze for a second; and then two. Something about him lightened slightly, but not completely.

After a moment's thought, he walked across the room, and pressed a hidden panel that let loose a drawer in the side of his suitcase. She looked curiously at him when he withdrew a long, silver box. Inside, when he opened it, there was a leather holster, with a bronzed hilt peaking out for her to see.

A weapon?

"Spock, what is that?" she asked curiously.

"A k'lau," Spock said softly.

A dagger?

He passed the small weapon to her, and she took it with curious hands, feeling the tarnished metal of the blade – hardly five inches from hilt to tip,, and so thin that she could barely see it when she turned it sideways. Yet, when she pressed her thumb to the tip, it refused to yield to her. It was strong. In the hilt, ancient Vulcan texts were inscribed – a poem denoting a warrior's vow to return home to his bondmate at any cost.

She ran her fingers over the thin metal of the blade, her eyes sparking playfully. "I didn't think weapons like this were logical."

Spock tilted his head. "What you hold is an heirloom of the S'gai T'shi clan, and thus not considered a weapon."

She lifted a brow.

"It's from before the time of Surak," he admitted.

"That explains it," she mumbled.

Spock reached over to press a finger against the only jewel decorating the bottom of the hilt – an amber stone that sparkled as it caught the light. As he did, the blade of the dagger gleamed with a new light.

"Poison," Spock said as if remarking on the weather. "A neuron-paralysis that will have any attacker dead within moments of contact with the blood."

She felt her fingers grow cold as she pushed the dagger into its hilt. "Why do you want me to have this?"

"A last resort," Spock said. "Our weaponry and other technology will be useless due to the ion disruption on the surface. I do not want you to be totally bereft of any aide if things take a turn for the worse."

"I understand," she said softly as she pressed the small weapon into a hidden pocked behind her rank bar.

When she turned to look at him, Spock was still staring at her, that same doubt gnawing at the back of his mind. Suddenly fond amongst his concern, she closed the few steps between them to wrap her arms around Spock, pushing as much peace and confidence as she could towards him. "How will I need anything like that, when I have you there to protect me?" she whispered into his ear.

His arms tightened around her, almost possessively. "I did not like the way he looked at you," he finally admitted, his voice lower with emotion. "I did not like the way he insinuated . . . The way his mind traced over you . . ."

"Spock," she calmed, her voice a low purr against his ear, "he was warning me. I am taking that warning, and abiding by it."

"And yet you will not stay here?"

"No," and here she let annoyance seep into her tone. "I will do my job like any other officer – with all of the risks any other officer will take."

Spock was silent for a long moment. "I understand."

She closed her eyes, long and slow, her lashes fluttering against his cheek. "You don't have anything to worry about, my _ashal-veh_ – you'll see."

When he still looked dubious, she tugged on him until she could reach his lips for a kiss, trying to ease over the concern in his mind as well as her own.

For a brief moment, it worked.

.

.

While the floating cities of Serillious had been all light and elegance, the surface of the world was dark and primitive. On the ground beneath the thick canopy of trees, there was hardly any light at all. Their way was lit by oddly bio-luminescent plant life, and the thick golden mist that rose from the ground like ghosts.

She regarded the mist as it swirled around her fingers. Curiously, she threaded her hand through the air, watching as the air separated and played around her. She regarded Spock through her breathing mask as he took samples of the mist to study once they returned to the _Enterprise_. His whole presence against her mind was curious past the tense sort of anticipation and concern that made his body tight and his eyes sharp.

She tried to relax, and enjoy the odd scenery around them.

While it was very much a jungle, it was like none she had seen back on Earth. The tress were odd and twisting things, with leaves that made irregular patterns as they bunched together to block out the sun. The thick bases of the Silook, J'lius had told them, was almost ten meters in diameter on average – with the largest ever recorded at a stunning 37.86 meters. (Three times as large as the oldest Sequoia on Earth.) Their limbs reached to the sky while their thick foliage tangled together to cast a blanket over the ground. If their bases were that large, she could only imaging how tall they grew . . .

Long and spidery branches of the dead ones in the undergrowth were overtaken by choker vines and root foliage that would someday completely break down the dead things. The boughs reached out with long fingers, as if desperate to caress those passing with their spider hands. She remembered then, stories about Earth's old superstitions when it came to the forests, and she understood for a moment. This world was alive with voices.

There were clans of Rillions who had tree cities, and those who dwelt inside of the mountains, using natural catacombs in the make-up of the land to dwell and travel in. The two were on good terms with each other, but peace was always a fragile thing. There was a third type of clan that kept to the plains in the western hemisphere of the planet, but they were nomadic, and hard to find.

The whole world pulsed with a primitive energy, one that was intoxicating as the mist that pulsed with a heartbeat right past her fingertips.

The deeper they got, the more silent their group became.

Finally, they reached a clearing in the massive trees. Here the ground was cleared, and an odd mosaic of stones set in. There was a river past the stonework, a small and trickling thing that sounded musical to her ears. Where the trees were cleared, small slivers of sunlight made it down, the rays throwing patterns of beams as they wove through the branches to stubbornly light the world below.

"They are here," J'lius said, his voice thick. He had been shaking slightly since they had entered the mists, even though he wore a mask like the rest of them.

Like an addict near an opium den, she thought distantly . . .

He lifted his hands to cup them about his mouth as he issued a low crying sound. It sounded like the birds they had been passing for the last hour, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that they could have been watched the entire time of their trip.

At J'lius' call a ring of beings appeared across the river, seated on strange six legged beings who served as mounts for riding. She tried to compare the animals to horses in her mind, but failed – these creatures were mighty, with strong taloned legs, and scaled skin that rippled in the forest shadows. There were probably twelve riders in all, all staring dubiously at the party across the river. They didn't speak, but the air around them was heavy with a mental aura.

The center rider dismounted in a smooth maneuver, hardly disturbing the forest floor as he did so. For such a large and powerful looking alien, he moved with the grace of a jungle cat – instantly putting the fine hairs on the back of her neck at attention.

"M'aarcus," J'lius whispered softly. "He is who you wish to speak to."

Curious, Nyota compared the man before her to the other she had met in the floating cities. Like J'lius, he was darker in color, a deep and rich green that shone sepia and black almost. Even darker still were the intricate markings which were painted up and down his revealed skin – full versions of the markings that J'lius had scrapped from his skin. His long black hair swung in braids that were twined through with various beads and feathers, and his backwards limbs rippled with a more brutal power than the lean elegance of the Serillos. Like J'lius, he bore no wings.

A face that seemed to be set in a scowl relaxed into what she assumed to be a diplomatic neutrality. His eyes, while black with the rest of his people, seemed to have a golden haze clouding his pupils, reflecting the mists that swirled around him. He inhaled deeply, the mist around him swirling with the inhalation, as he patted the flank of his mount. Out of deference, he took a pair of daggers from his person and put them in one of his saddlebags. After a glance at his companions, he stood straight and crossed the bend of the river, careless as to the splashes, which were louder than the murmuring of his party. He let his gaze cross over the foreign of the party before approaching J'lius, slowly and warrily.

"It is good to see you again, Brother," he greeted his former clansman. He raised one hand to touch the straps of the mask that J'lius wore. The tone of his voice when he spoke, was almost sad. "I only wish that the circumstances had been different."

He spoke in Rillion, his accent thick and heavy – almost guttural. The back of her throat ached in sympathy – their language was like uttering Klingon, and it grated on the vocal cords at times. Around the pair, the hive mind swirled heavily. They had been close at one time, she realized, a sympathetic pang traveling through her. It was an odd situation – captive turned friend turned informant.

Kirk glance over at her, looking for a sign, but she merely shrugged. "They know each other well," was all that she said. He would have understood the rest from the translators that Spock had formatted from them.

Around them, their Serillio escort shuffled uneasily, their eyes wary on the Rillion man. She could hear them murmuring under their breath – nothing that needed translating, and there were a few tense hands over the weapons that had been brought. All swords and knives – anything more mechanical would have been useless in the ion thick undergrowth.

J'lius narrowed his eyes. "I have cleared my mind of the mists, I do not wish to return. I am here merely to act as a translator for you."

"Oh?" M'aarcus smiled, the contortion split his face to reveal a row of sharp teeth. "I am sorry to hear that, Brother. And yet, I know you did not come to speak of the past. Tell me who has accompanied you."

J'lius inclined his head, and introduced them all. M'aarcus' gaze rested on her for a moment longer than the rest, and she held his stare evenly. Against her mind, their psyches swirled and pressed, but she could feel no more than that. She glanced at Spock, wondering how he was tuning all of this out, before stepping forward to be at Kirk's side.

Briefly, Kirk outlined Starfleet's purpose in meeting with them. His tone was steady and he held M'aarcus' intimidating gaze evenly, as he requested that the Rillions agreed to negotiate in any shape or form along with the Serillios. J'lius translated Kirk's words into Rillion for M'aarcus, and she nodded approvingly when the words sounded true to her ear. It was a faithful translation.

"I understand that you rivalries run deep, but surely a truce can be called, just to decide what is best for your world."

M'aarcus had remained silent the whole of Kirk's speech. At her mind she felt the turbulent swirl of the hive – he was sharing and transmitting the whole of Kirk's speech, and she wondered if it was that concentration rather than a more surface respect that led to his silence.

"Serillious," M'aarcus said carefully, "has been free from offworld influences for the last millennia. Tell me, why should we change that way now? Especially to scar our world with the mines needed to take the very thing that makes our way of life possible?"

Kirk frowned at the question, "Already you have attracted more than enough offworld attention – and the unsavory type, on top of that. Alliance with the Federation could help eliminate the most of that conflict."

M'aarcus gave a bark of a laugh. "We have taken care of ourselves so far."

Kirk snorted. "And tell me – what happens when these smugglers and pirates wise up to how you are keeping them at bay? When they come back with breathing masks against the mists and levelers for the forests?"

M'aarcus was silent; around her she felt the hive swirl tempestuously. He was careful as he said his next words, weighing their impact and their phrasing. "Have you thought to consider, Hatchling," he said slowly, "how we came to the attention of these vultures?"

Kirk blinked, obviously not expecting this line of questioning. He was silent for a long moment. "We admit, it is a mystery. But, some things are rarely secret for long."

"A mystery?" M'aarcus continued, tone dubious. "We have no trade with the rest of the galaxy, and the skycities have little to offer in the ways of tourism. We are in a lonely quadrant, with no reason to attract interest – and yet, we have a Brethren clan that is interested in expansion. Now, if it is because of their wagging tongues that we are now forced to join the great beast that puts the stars in order – why should we conform to that?"

Behind her, there was an instant outcry from the Serilio portion of their party – wings fluttered and insults spewed as venomous as the mists. At her side, Spock tensed, his face straight even as he harshly held himself ready to drop into a Suus Mahna stance if needed. She took one step closer to him.

"How dare you suggest that we would put our world in danger to satisfy our ambitions!" came the loudest one from Llious' right hand man, C'ronus.

M'aarcus flicked his gaze up. "I do not speak to debauchee the whole – just those few bad seeds amongst the grain."

C'ronus snorted. "As you can see, Captain, conversing with them is a waste of time. We never should have -"

Kirk raised a hand. "No, he makes a valid point, and one that will surely be investigated."

"You would take the word of a raver of one such as him, over -"

" - he seems to be in full possession of his senses," Kirk countered. "I see no evidence of madness."

At this Nyota frowned, watching M'aarcus closely. Her time with J'lius let her key in on the Rillion's body language. His clenched fists, and the slight widening of his nostrils let her know that he was exercising a vast deal of control over himself. If it was anger over their Serillio contingent, or stress over the meeting – or something more base that he was fighting to control, she was not sure.

C'ronus bared his teeth. "M'aarcus can control himself to imitate one of us – but he is no more than that beneath the surface."

M'aarcus inclined his head sardonically. "You, _v'rich_, should watch your words. You are here to speak of peace, are you not?"

C'ronus glared, taking a step forward with one hand on the hilt of the holstered dagger at his side.

At this Kirk stepped between the two. "Gentleman," he hissed the term, "this is supposed to be a peaceful talk. A talk of what is best for your world. Now," he looked at M'aarcus, "if such is true, the Federation can provide a protection for Serillious' resources. No mining needs to be done if it would prove counterproductive for the geology of the planet and her inhabitants." His eyes flickered to C'ronus, "_all_ of her inhabitants."

"My apologies," C'ronus gave through his teeth.

M'aarcus smirked at the other man, but to Kirk he said, "You speak well."

Kirk grinned roguishly – and she fought the urge to roll her eyes out of habit more than anything else. "It's a work in progress."

M'aarcus smirked. "You are a warrior, and your words are honest. I sense no deceit in you, and yet . . . how many other planets have been harvested for the bounty they hold? Your warriors – their vessels are powered by the mass of ore and crystals that makes up the bedrock of our world. How long will it be until that is forcibly taken from us? Maybe not in my generation, or my son's generation – but of the hatchlings to come – who is to say that they would remain safe from the few greedy amongst the whole that tries to do by their word?"

Kirk frowned. "And what makes you think that some other entity, someone more uncaring about the world's health, won't take Serillious? You have no space goers amongst you, and down here your weaponry is primitive at best. A true fight would be a massacre."

M'aarcus narrowed his eyes. "We have done well so far."

"So far," Kirk agreed, but there was a hinge in his voice.

"You see our impasse, then?" M'aarcus took a deep breath in, and she could feel the air around him turn heavy. He was conversing on the mental plane, she knew.

"Who are you speaking to?" she asked curiously, in her burgeoning Rillion.

M'aarcus looked over at her after hearing her speak his own tongue, and almost immediately she felt his presence against her mind. When it was focused solely on her, she found that she could hear whispers – whispers that she couldn't return, or fully understand, even. The sensation was akin to having hundreds of ants crawling on her skin. The noise was white static – so many speaking all at once.

She blinked at the mental overload, and at her side Spock stepped closer to her, opening their bond, and shielding her from the onslaught.

M'aarcus shifted his gaze from her to Spock, and back again, clearly intrigued. "What do you mean, Hatchling?" he asked, just to see what her response would be.

She tapped the side of her head, her eyes smirking knowingly.

M'aarcus actually laughed, the gold haze covering his eyes retreating for a moment. His eyes were very warm when not obscured, and she wondered if he too was of the skyclans before – like J'lius. "I am the mouthpiece for the hive," he admitted. "Every clan chief is listening to us right now."

Kirk blinked. "Everyone?"

M'aarcus nodded. "I am part of a whole; it would be unseemly for one to decide alone. All decisions are made by the collective."

Behind her C'ronus snorted. "Barbarians unable to think for themselves," he scathed.

M'aarcus ignored the Serillio man. "The collective has decided to at least hear the negotiations. And yet, I can make you no promises as to future agreements."

Kirk inclined his head. "That would be all that I would ask for at this point in time."

Boldly, the Captain stepped forward, and held his hand out to the Rillion man. M'aarcus looked at the proffered hand oddly.

J'lius snickered before saying in Rillion. "Humans – shaking of hands symbolizes a sealed deal."

M'aarcus lifted his brows in understanding, and took a step forward.

And then he hesitated.

Around them the forest was oddly still; silent. Against her mind, the far off whisper was a growing static.

J'lius looked concerned as well, his shoulders twitching as if his body was still fighting against the urge to fly. "Something is not right," he said aloud, voicing the concerns that had suddenly blanketed the clearing as the mists did.

M'aarcus' eyes widened, gold flooding their depths like a wave. "The _v'rich_," he cursed angrily, turning on his heel suddenly. The rest of his words were spoken too quickly for her to pick up on, but she could feel the hive swirl angrily – like a swarm of upset bees.

"Nyota?" Kirk turned to her. "What just happened? Did I break some sort of cultural taboo with the handshake there?"

"No," she said, thinking furiously as she tried to decode the fast and rapid speak of the men across the river, and the chaos against her mind. "It wasn't that . . ."

Suddenly, understanding set in just as J'lius took a step towards her, concern in his eyes.

"Captain," she snapped. "We are about to have company!"

A horrible sound invaded the clearing – like the sounds of locust across the fertile planes of the dessert oasis. It was a wailing scream that grew as the clearing filled with dozens and dozens of Rillion warriors, some on alien mounts, and some on foot – all brandishing primitive weapons.

They said nothing but for inarticulate cries, but against her mind she could hear them speak:

_"You dare to aide what would see us destroyed?"_

To her surprised, the war party was just as viciously engaging the Rillions under M'aarcus' command as well as the security party from Starfleet and the Serillios.

She found herself back to back with Kirk and Spock, and took the moment to say: "I don't think the whole of the Rillions were pleased with M'aarcus agreeing to meet with you."

"I'm starting to see that," Kirk agreed, and then he could say no more to her as the Rillions broke past the line of security officers. The Captain was good in hand to hand fighting – and with the primitive daggers in his hand, he was even better. Spock could hold his own as well as the Captain, and she tried to stay as close as she could to them. She was excellent with a phaser – but that was a useless weapon here. Her close range combat skills were laughable against this kind of alien strength – which put even the strongest human to shame.

These Rillions were nothing like the measured M'aarcus, or the haunted J'lius she had come to know – they were harsh and savage – their eyes completely gold from the mist and their minds turbulent and harsh against her own. Their mental cries were a high pitched buzzing that overwhelmed her – added to it was the flapping of wings from their Serillio counterparts. The turbulence in the air was violent and tempestuous, sending the gold mist swirling until it was hard to see, let alone judge the progress of the scuffle.

Against her mind, she could feel Spock – but it was hard to hold onto that link with so much going on around her . . . She had not the control for it.

She felt a flare of rage against her mind, and felt bile rise in her throat at the tangibility of it. Following the source of it, she saw J'lius facing off with a pair of Rillion warriors. One man was tall, even for a Rillion, with an angry burn mark covering the center of his face – completely mutilating his nose and left eye. His eyes were so clouded with the mists that they were white, and he had no audible form of speech – he communicated solely on the mental plane, and his words were all sneers and jeers echoed by thousands of others. In his left hand he held an alien looking blade with a sawtooth edge, and upon seeing it, she felt remnants of J'lius' fear as her own. Her shoulder-blades itched with an old wound – and the implications of the memories in her mind weighed heavy on her own.

She felt queasy with stolen memories as the man approached J'lius, who brandished his own weapon bravely.

_S'cathus_, his mind whispered in remembrance, and hers heard.

She took a step forward, but didn't dare leave the men who were shielding her. At that thought, Spock's presence was forceful in her mind, keeping her close. She didn't bother a negative emotion at the possessiveness, knowing the worry that fueled and amplified it.

_"Du dungau-hafau, t'nash-veh k'diwa,"_ Spock's mind whispered against her own, retreating to his own tongue in then intensity of the battle around them. His command for her to stay close was tempered by his use of 'beloved', but she felt her thoughts spike in surprise at the fervency of his thoughts and concerns.

She used no words in her reply – just pushed a feeling of acquiescence towards him as she tried to stay close and remain somewhat helpful at the same time.

Still, even as she tried to remain oblivious, her eyes continually sought out J'lius against the mire – and the fiend of a Rillion that he was facing down. S'cathus fought with the ferocity of three Klingons, and his rage at her mind ate away at the communal peace that she was used to feeling from the Serillios.

J'lius was loosing ground, she realized, even as she felt his panic spike in her mind, stronger than his determination.

There was no security officer close enough to aide, and the Serillios wouldn't lift a finger for a Rillion engaging a Rillion – even if the Rillion was one of their own. . .

She bit her lip, fighting the anxious quiver of her muscles that ached to _do something_.

Without thinking, she bent down to take one of the weapons from a fallen body by her feet, and darted forward.

She was small and quick – dark enough to blend with the shadows of the forest floor and fast enough to weave through the much larger and stronger beings locked in battle. Her senses were attuned to the outer edges of the hive mind – giving her a vague sense of who noticed her and when, allowing her to dodge and dance along the chaos around her.

Spock's presence in her mind was a furious jolt of surprise and sharp panic as he moved after her. But his pursuit of her would be slowed by the men he was facing . . .

She bit her lip as she darted towards J'lius and S'cathus, her eyes narrowed and determined.

She knew she was of no use in a physical fight, but her aim was unerringly accurate – as Kirk had learned challenging her in the firing halls time and time again – and she had the element of surprise on her side. What would a half-mad Rillion fear from a small human girl, obviously out of her element?

She used the speed she had built up from running to help launch herself into the air, a cry in her throat as she flung herself towards the larger Rillion. There was a hideous tear of muscle and flesh as her knife struck home in the aline man's back, and she had to quell a rise of bile in her throat that still sickened her even with the adrenaline she had sustaining her.

S'cathus gave a mighty bellow as she tore the blade down and twisted, the skin about the blade ripped and a dark and thick liquid coated her hands – which she was most decidedly _not_ going to think about. She hung loosely from his back, trying to duck this way and that to avoid the great hands swatting about for her - much as she would swat after a fly. She saw stars in front of her eyes when she didn't duck quick enough to avoid one curled fist. She felt the right side of her face bloom in pain, and the warm air was suddenly cold against her skin – she was bleeding.

She fell backwards at the force of the hit, and her grip slipped from the blade – which had yet to fall to the ground - and she refused to think about the implications of _that_.

Her next breath was shaky, and she gasped, noticing with horror that her breath-mask was loose – one of the straps had broken from the violence of the blow she had been dealt. With fast hands she held the mask to her face, trying her best to keep breathing the cleansed air, even if the mask wasn't airtight.

J'lius and S'cathus noticed her plight at the same time – she felt the larger Rillion's glee, even as she felt J'lius' renewed determination. He would be able to handle the injured man now.

"Run, Hatchling!" J'lius shouted at her, not bothering to use the hive mind to tell her so.

She got clumsily to her feet, and prepared to do just that. Her eyes sought out Spock, even as her mind scrambled to find his – but his presence was a far off thing in the mentally heavy atmosphere around them. Her limbs were already trembling from the gases that she had breathed – her mind felt light, and her lungs ached.

She coughed, trying to clear out her airways; but it was of little use.

Unfortunately, instead of finding Spock, she had attracted the attention of the two Rillion men who had been fighting besides S'cathus at the beginning of the battle. She took one look at the hazy shade of their eyes, and the turbulent chaos that was their minds on the mental plane, and ran as fast as her limbs would cooperate.

_Spock?_ her mind screamed.

There was no answer.

Desperately, she felt his presence in her mind fighting to return to her, but she couldn't reach out and grasp it through the mire she found herself encased in.

She found herself straying far from the center of the battle – the forest was quieting around her, her breathing abnormally loud in her ears.

Her next step was thrown off by something sharp and rounded striking the back of her head. The force of her made her slip on the mossy ground, and she landed hard on her hands and knees. Her hold on her mask fell, and she gagged as she inhaled the fumes from the forest air. When she lifted her hands back up to her face, there was nothing – her mask was gone!

Frantically, she faltered blindly against the thick undergrowth, her hands searching out the foliage better than her eyes ever could. She could hear the sounds of the two that were chasing her, and it put her on edge, making her skin crawl in warning as adrenaline flooded through her system.

At the back of her mind, she could feel Spock's worried query press in against their bond, frantically searching for her. But she couldn't answer . . . She could only hold her breath and pray that the fumes wouldn't become too much of a problem before she could outrun her pursuers.

She couldn't find her mask – and she was out of time. Thinking quickly, she took the dagger Spock had given her earlier, and slipped it into the tight pull of her hair before her ponytail . . . It was small and dark enough, she just may get away with hiding it there . . . Anywhere else, it would be found.

And then she ran.

The first breath of the mists made her stride break. Her body shuddered as the mist invaded her throat; her lungs. She tried to hold her breath after that, using the silly tricks her and her sister had used at the ocean growing up to prolong the time between breathing.

A second breath, and she felt her limbs grow watery.

A third breath, and she thinks that she knew what it was to drown without water.

A fourth breath, and her mind reeled drunkenly.

A fifth breath, and she couldn't walk further.

A sixth, and her eyes were just so heavy . . . so very heavy.

The world around her grew dark, the last thing she saw being the flash of gold behind her eyes, and the frantic brush of his mind against hers before the connection went black.


	4. this cool stretch of shore is not my own

**Part Four: "this cool stretch of mountain and shore is not my own"**

_She dreamed heavily._

_Disjointed things, forgotten things and things remembered as smoke over a flame._

_She remembered her sister – remembered parroting back words in different languages between each other until their speech was a quilt of different cultures and peoples. The exercise had been innocent – spoken without thought as they played in the sand on the shore of the Indian ocean. Later she remembers stargazing with her father – Moumbwa pointing out constellations, and her challenging him to model the dialects that belonged to them for her._

_Years later still, she would master these languages as if she were Penelope before her loom – weaving together syllable and verse to create something whole and beautiful._

_And her weaving would bring her to him – who was a masterpiece of translations against her mind and senses . . ._

_He was something she'd reach for, moving to him as through fog – opaque and blanketing – and never be able to truly reach . . ._

_And her eyes would flutter._

And she would awaken.

Around her, the ground was moving.

It was hard for her to see – her vision was blurred, and her head ached something fierce, but her body felt as if it were moving. Around her were quiet murmurs – half spoken conversations whose wholes she was not apart of. She tried listening – understanding – but the harder she tried, the more her head ached. Her throat burned, and her lungs ached with every breath – but it was hard to do a catalog of her body's injuries under the intense mire that she was covered in.

There were strong arms holding her – supporting her if not comforting her, and she had enough presence of mind to chafe at the embrace. She tried to open her eyes more fully – doing so enough to look over the ledge they were walking, and glimpse the breathtaking view of the forests below them . . . unending rolls of emerald hills, and a far off lake that gleamed a brilliant shade of blue. Waterfalls echoed across the distance, their roars playing a cadence to the creatures whose calls were warm on the golden air . . .

The golden air . . .

The mists were thick and everywhere, all encompassing as their steps disturbed it, forming lazy and drifting patterns in the air. She shied away from it instinctively, feeling her mind move as if she were under a thick wall of water. Her breathing was fast and shallow – as if she couldn't get enough oxygen to her body – and she tried to inhale as little as possible.

The voices around her were alert to her presence – but she wasn't able to hear what they had to say as her mind sank beneath the blackness waiting to encompass her.

Against the static in her mind, the voice she wished to hear was silent . . . so very, very silent.

When the darkness came calling for her consciousness again, she let herself dip under, hoping that in dreams she would find him there.

.

.

"What the hell was that?" Kirk's words were a furious hiss as he turned on the alien men in the room. His eyes were a bleached flame as he ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of intense frustration.

"That . . . was an unexpected occurrence," Llious said, his voice a grave whisper. "But, something that was not outside the realm of possibility when dealing with those of the mists."

"That attack was not a random strike. They knew we were coming – and I've had quite a few accusations of leaks from both sides."

"The utmost attempts of secrecy were taken -"

"Bull," Kirk snapped. "Your whole species is opened to the same mind – how can you hide something like this?"

M'aarcus laughed. "Hatchling, you don't understand the hive if you think that things cannot hide, even in the open."

"Alright," Kirk acquiesced. "Well then, your 'hidden in plain sight' turned to quite a _few_ knowing. I have eight men in the infirmary with McCoy – and they are lucky to be living at all. I lost two men completely – and you know what, those are some calls that _I_ get to make – and to tell their families what? That they died over some ridiculous feud that will never mean anything to them? And then . . . and then one of our own is missing . . ."

At this, the cold wall that Spock was holding over himself threaten to crack. His hands clenched at his sides as his nostrils flared with the violence of his exhalation. While the logical part of him was shaking his head at the Captain's emotional words – words that would make any diplomat's head ache, and he was nothing if not the son of one of the galaxy's foremost ambassadors – the whole of him found a vindication in them.

At first, when she was taken, he had felt nothing but red. A fierce and primal sort of anger that was all Vulcan and ancient, overpowering the calm center of his psyche that he normally exercised a precise control over. A part of him had hollered, incensed, over the missing woman – which his Vulcan side considered his bondmate in all but name.

They had lost her; and it had taken both Jim and the Doctor talking him down in order to return to the capitol . . . Retreating. Regrouping. _Planning_.

How he had hated those words in those moments. A part of him understood Jim's propensity to leap without looking in that instant – he wished to tear the forest apart, to burn the trees and tear the ground in order to find her; and that fierce outpouring of emotion had surprised those around him as much as it had him himself.

He hated logic in that moment; wanting nothing but her back at his side.

He was lost to his thoughts as Kirk came over, standing very close – if he were the Doctor, he would have placed a hand on his back. But he wasn't . . . And in that moment, everything Vulcan and violent within him was swimming right beneath the surface.

Completely ignoring everyone else in the room, Kirk asked in a lower voice. "Spock . . . can you feel her?"

His hands clenched. For here was the true worry that invaded his veins and made his fury more fear than anger . . .

"No, Captain," he said, his level voice breaking around the edges of the down sweep of his last syllable. "I . . . I lost contact with Nyo . . . with Lieutenant Uhura, when we were still on the ground level."

Kirk's face was carefully blank. "Does that mean . . ."

"No," he inclined his head sharply at the unspoken. "She is not . . . that I would feel."

Kirk held his gaze for a moment, sadness tainting his eyes. "Spock . . ."

"No," he insisted. "I can feel . . . as if over a great distance. Like the warmth from a star that is in the night sky. Normally she is a sun in my mind . . . I would be able to feel if she were taken permanently from me. I would feel it."

Kirk nodded, and this time he did place a hand on his shoulder – for a moment, only, but Spock found himself strangely thankful of the gesture. The friendship that had grown between him and the Captain over the last three years let him feel the other man's worry and pain against his own mind, and the rawness of those emotions wrecked havoc on his own.

Kirk took a step back, understanding. "We'll find her," he tried to comfort.

"I know." His voice was a low growl – a vow.

From the line of Serillion men, J'lius stepped up. "You would not be able to access her bond with her while in the mists, Vulcan."

Spock's eyes snapped over to the other man, narrowing before he had a chance to realize he was doing so. His normal control over his responses was a far off thing. "And what do you know of this?" he asked, his voice a low and dangerous whisper. Although the logical part of him knew that J'lius was not at fault, the whole of him was fighting a deep and dangerous rage at the man. If it was not for him . . .

It was pointless to dwell on the what-if, he told himself firmly.

"I have felt it," he said simply. "It is what makes her fairly sing to the hive mind. And after they have a Potential such as her, they would override her bond with you."

Spock frowned, not believing that the hive could do much to the bond he shared with Nyota. It was too deeply rooted, anchored to the deep places of her psyche. In the end, trying to remove that would hurt her more than her time in the mist ever could.

"What I share with her is deeper than your method of communication," he said. "It won't be so easily glossed over."

"And yet, the mists will make her control weak – you will not be able to access that part of her mind while she is swimming in and out of the mist's hold."

Spock took a deep breath against the more violent feelings welling up inside of him.

Kirk, who had been on the receiving end of his wrath before, recognized the signs, and moved forward quickly with a frown. "And while we are talking about the mists – you say that they want her as Potential. How will they do that if the mists are slowly killing her? Do they even realize what they are doing?"

"If so, not until it is too late. Even then – she will have seen the whole of the clan. They will not let her go – after being that intimately twined with them, she will not be permitted to."

"That's fine by me," Kirk said darkly. "We've become good at doing things the hard way."

Kirk paced back and forth, his steps agitated. "Can you give me any idea as to how long she'll last down there? Those mists can't be any good for her after a long period of time."

The Rillion man hesitated. "I cannot venture to say."

McCoy chose that moment to walk into the room, wiping his hands off on his uniform – which he still hadn't had time to change, judging from the stains and tears. He had heard the trail end of Jim's question, and answered: "From just a preliminary autopsy of a few of our Rillion friends – I'd say that the mists will wreck havoc on a human frame, given to what it has done to a native frame – and that's even with the Rillion body adapting with every generation."

Kirk looked troubled. "How long, Bones?"

"I'd give her four days before she finds it hard to hold consciousness on her own – if she's even managing it now. A week before her lungs start to warp. At about two weeks . . ." he let his voice tapper off, not needing to finish.

Kirk nodded. "And you can get to work on an antidote for the poisoning? Have it ready for when we bring her back."

At this the Serillio leader started. "You mean to go back down there, again?"

"Yes," Kirk said bluntly.

Llious snorted. "You hardly came back whole from a neutral location. How do you mean to infiltrate the whole of a Rillion enclave?"

Kirk said. "I've gotten through worse binds before."

"Yes, with weapons you are familiar with, and an enemy you know," Llious said. "You could not plan this rescue attempt if you had a month."

"I don't need a month – I need a week."

"A week?" Llious repeated dubiously.

"Yes, a week. A week . . . because that is all of the time we have," Kirk scathed. He looked over to Spock and McCoy, his eyes set in a promise.

Spock tried to reach out and believe in that as he had so many times before.

.

.

She awakened later, much later . . . at least, she felt as if it were much later. Her body had no conception of a quantity of time past a numb sort of indifferent haze. Vaguely she felt pain – but that too was a far off and distant thing, something that her body told her she should be feeling, but could not muster up the energy to do so.

Trying to get her mind under control, she took a deep breath in, and another out. The air was less sticky where she was now, the mists only whispers in the air, and the slight difference alleviated a corner of the pressure on her mind.

She was laying on a roll of some sort of bedding. It was thin and simple – and underneath her she could feel the bumpy indentation of the earth. Around her were thick fabric like walls that let in shadows from the forests beyond. It was dark out – the bio-luminescent lights she had seen from that morning were in full bloom as they lit up the clearing outside of her tent. She could hear words – spoken, and laughter both. Against her mind, their presences were heavy and overbearing, and she tried to calm her mind so as to not draw their attention.

She couldn't move – her limbs were leaden, and her body refused to respond to her command. Her wrist ached – no doubt she had hurt it when she had landed on it, and her ankle felt twice as bad. The torn skin on her check was bandaged though, she could feel a cool and simple material against her skin, even though she couldn't lift had fingers to touch it and be sure.

There were further such bandages over her torso and arms, and when she inhaled she smelled something sulfuric – a salve of some sort.

"You will open your bindings if you move about much more," came a chiding voice from her left.

She snapped her eyes over to the source of the voice – a Rillion woman with widely set eyes painted gold, and a strong and sturdy build. She had her hair done in a single thick braid that fell down her back, and wore a rough sort of dress that dipped to reveal skin decorated with gently curving patterns – much like she had seen on J'lius and M'aarcus.

The woman was tying off a roll of bandages, and Nyota felt her guard drop just a little. "I am G'rgo, and your healing is my task. I'd tell you to stay off your feet – but you aren't capable of walking," the woman continued, her voice rough and guttural – as if she hadn't used her vocal cords in many months. She spoke completely aloud for the benefit of her human patient. "Your body is growing accustomed to the mists."

Ah, so that explained the Klingon war party screaming in her head. She winced at the sensation – the longer she was awake, the more her body could feel as it set itself to rights.

"Where am I?" she managed to pass through her lips, her voice airy and weak.

"We are en route," was all that G'rgo said – giving nothing of importance away. "We reach our destination by tomorrow morn."

So, they were traveling.

"Yes, we are," the woman said directly to the thoughts that had slipped from her mind into the collective. Nyota felt her stomach turn uncomfortably when she realized just how dire of a situation she was in.

"You fear, but it is needless – there is no ill will, only curiosity," the woman hissed in a nasally voice. "You are neither Rillion or Serillion, and different from the other offworlders we have seen."

"Different?" Nyota slurred, trying to wrap her mind around the concept of thinking, so heavy was the haze pressing in against her. Their version of ill will and hers differed quite a bit, it would seem.

G'rgo tapped her temple with one long finger. "You feel here," she murmured. "The hive recognizes you as a Potential."

Nyota stared at the Rillion woman through blurry eyes. Around the mist encasing her mind and drugging her senses she could 'feel' the edges of the hive mind against her conscious. It was a living and beating thing . . . so much like her bond with Spock, but stripped of all feeling, all familiarity. Touching minds with Spock felt natural. This was like there were thousands of voices in her head . . . watching her . . . whispering.

There were so many . . .

"The hive is many," G'rgo said upon hearing her thoughts. "Soon you may be able to chose what you hear and what you listen too."

That amount of control meant a time spent away from . . . Stars, but she had to find a way back . . .

"There is no way back," G'rgo said to her thoughts. "The hive is one; separate we are alone."

But she wasn't alone. She hadn't been in so long . . .

At this, she smiled gently, the gesture unnatural on a fierce face. "Many and all feel that way at the beginning – and yet, I can promise you . . . it will pass."

The thought sent a dull stab of fear through her – the unthinkable becoming the accepted, and even yearned for . . . No. It couldn't.

The woman was silent for a long, long moment, even though Nyota knew that she must have heard the turmoil in her mind. The gold from her eyes receded enough for her to speak of her own thought and will, for just a moment. Her voice was soft when she spoke – the deep and melodic tones of a Serillio woman, and the implications of that turned at her stomach. "You were very brave going against S'cathus. Many . . . many would not have acted so foolishly to aide someone close to them – let alone someone of an entirely different clan. I wish well for you, Nyota Uhura, whether it be of this collective, or the next."

A moment later, her eyes flooded gold, and her manner cooled. "You should rest now, the journey is long, and there will be much to decide on when we reach our destination."

There was only one destination she wished to reach, she thought desperately.

She opened her mouth to say as much when the tent flap opened, letting the golden mist from beyond in. It flooded her lungs, filled her senses . . . and she felt her mind drifted away without her consent again.

.

.

Their council broke a few hours later; debate over who had taken Nyota and where coming to a stand still.

A part of Spock was glad at the chance to get away from the others. From the pity in Kirk's eyes, to the sympathy in the Doctor's . . . The vague sort of interest of their hosts was even more aggravating.

So much aggravation . . . This was not the way he was used to handling himself. This was not the way he acted in intense situations – and the discordance to his equilibrium left him spinning in its wake.

He walked with his fists clenched, and his form stiff. Below the floating city the jungles stretched green and never-ending, and he had to fight the irrational urge to start blindly searching until the ache that was her missing presence was filled . . .

The peace he felt at escaping the others to put his mind at ease was quickly ruined when he reached the quarters he shared with Nyota.

He had to fight the actual wince that fought to make its way onto his face as he entered, and was assaulted by the whole of her – the scent of her perfume that was on the air, and he almost tripped on the pair of boots that she had left by the door. There was a can of black nail polish on the table, right next to the linguistic PADDs that she had stacked everywhere, this way and that. Her empty coffee mug, and the hairbands on the vanity sink . . .

It took him a moment to compose himself, fighting the urge to hyperventilate at the sensory onslaught. His control was not his own right now . . .

He didn't bother changing, or ordering the lights on – he didn't need to see anything more. Instead he made a quick path to the meditation mat that he had left out by the window. Not bothering to light the candles or the incense, he dropped to the ground, and started chanting under his breath – he needed to clear his head. He needed to be able to think – his great intellect was useless when so much feeling clouded over the strands of information that he needed to uncoil . . . Control. He needed control, if not peace. He would not have peace until she was back . . .

He needed to feel her mind against his. It had been years since his mind was this empty – and so used had he became to letting his psyche exist for and apart of hers that he was quite uncertain of how to deal with the separation of thoughts . . .

It took him the better part of an hour to bind his mind to where he could even attempt to reach out to her. When he felt his mind was calm enough – when the angry crimson and red of his father's blood was contained under the cool blue bands of his logic and control – he searched for the strand that connected his mind to hers. As always, it was near the center of him, glowing a gold so pure that it was almost white – like molten gold free of impurities. Starlight, only brighter.

Now, that bright cord was dim, and yellowed. But it had still yet to snap . . . It was merely hidden, as if put under a basket, or held under murky water . . .

He found the connection, and traced it – tracing through the weight that this world was on the mental plane. He traced through thousands of minds – like looking for a butterfly amongst locusts – using every mental trick and shield he knew to navigate until he found the strand that was hers and only hers . . .

And once found, he held the connection in his mind's eye . . . and whispered.

.

.

The next time she awakened, the encampment had moved again. They were no longer moving, but still . . . Her senses tingled while her mind dipped in to skim the surface of the hive collective . . . They were underground. In the mountains.

She felt agony bloom through her as she realized that she was so far away from anywhere she wanted to be.

She was no longer bound. Her wrists and ankles were free, and her uniform was gone – replaced with a rough, yet sturdy sort of dress that she had seen G'rgo wear. She hoped to Okeon that it was G'rgo who had dressed her.

The inflicted gashes on her arms and torso were still raw and angry under her crude bandages. She winced as they rubbed against her skin, chafing as she shifted. She was on some sort of bed . . . woven blankets around her, and the scent of exotic spice that she was starting to recognize as the iodized mist pressing in around her. The walls were stone, threaded through with the same bio-luminescent lights that they had seen amongst the planet life the day before.

She registered all of this with a detached sort of curiosity; her mind filing away facts and figures while her senses remained past her ability to control.

When she went to sit up, she found that her head thrummed with a forgotten pain as her body protested the movement. She felt as if she was on a planet with a high gravitational pull . . . so hard was it to coax her limbs to move. When she did move, the room swirled dangerously, and her limbs wobbled uselessly.

Her body was completely helpless under the gases in the air . . .

A part of her was thankful that it had done nothing more than immobilize her, but another part of her cried in despair at the weakness . . .

She had to get out of here . . .

Underneath the drugged state of her mind, an animal like terror stole through her as she panicked. The rise of feeling as violent and turbulent in her veins, and for a moment she could see nothing but red as her fingers shook under the weight of her emotions . . .

The violence of her emotions awakened the bond that had been dormant at the back of her mind, making it flare into rich and vibrant color against the mental planes of her psyche. Immediately, as she concentrated on that, the other voices of the hive were muted . . . They didn't matter any more. All that mattered . . .

_Spock?_ Her mind screamed.

_Spock, where are you?_

She could get no coherent response from his mind save for a tangible feeling of relief. _Alive_, his mind screamed. _Alive_ . . . But nothing else. She could formulate no questions, and he could give her no answers, so turbulent was her mental state . . .

She needed to concentrate, but found that she couldn't past the mists clouding her senses.

"Spock," she whispered aloud, her voice unrecognizable as hers. Tears pricked at her eyes, as she felt the bond start to fade again . . . She was too close to the other voices . . . so many voices . . .

She felt Spock's concern grow cold and frantic as he realized that she was fading away . . . and then she felt nothing.

Against the sea of voices in her mind, she felt so very empty.

.

.

A whole of a world away, in the shadows of a darkened room, he breathed in deep, and tried to hold his emotional control over the turbulent sense of relief and pain that was growing in him like a tidal wave.

He exhaled, and let the wave crash over him, exhausting in the chaos of his emotions before passing a hand to calm them – turning rapids into ripples in order to think with a clear mind . . .

She was alive.

_Alive._

Now, it was up to him to bring her home.


	5. parted from me, but never parted

**Part Five: "parted from me, but never parted"**

_"Spock, I need to talk to you."_

_His eyes slid up to meet hers as he placed the PADDs he was going over to the side, his expression not changing, so much as it was simply less. Less severe, and more relaxed, to the part of her that was starting to recognize those things in him._

_She hesitated at the entrance to his office, biting her lip as she looked around._

_"My office hours are coming to a close, and I have no appointments for the rest of the eve," Spock said to the thoughts directly from her mind. "You can speak freely of what weighs on you."_

_She nodded as the doors softly slid shut behind her, before moving to take a seat before his desk. Folding her hands properly, she leaned forward with a serious look on her face. "I've been experiencing something odd lately, and I wanted to ask you if it was something outside of the norm . .. Or something to be expected with telepathic beings . . . or . . . I'm rambling, aren't I?"_

_"Yes," he honestly answered, but she could feel his amused smirk against her mind._

_Against her mind . . ._

_She lifted a hand to tap the side of her temple with her first two fingers. "Lately, I have been feeling . . . you. Here. I can feel vague things – your emotions, or glimpses of them anyway. And when I really concentrate I can almost hear your thoughts. Is that . . . is that normal?"_

_She had ended up leaning over the desk, as if if she were closer to him she could read his thoughts on his eyes as well as in her mind. He was regarding her curiously, as if weighing his words._

_"I have said before that my people do not take on intimate relationships casually . . . and this link between minds is a reason why."_

_"The tel-tor?" she asked curiously._

_"That is the marital bond," Spock explained, "and much stronger than what you are feeling now. Now you are feeling just a vague emphatic bond. The longer you are with me, the more that bond will deepen and grow."_

_She bit her lip, feeling the rise of feeling within her – curious, and maybe just a little bit awed that it was possible to be connected to another being like that._

_"So . . . you can hear my thoughts?" she asked._

_"Whispers of them," Spock answered. "Were I to concentrate I could access the whole of them."_

_She blinked at that._

_"Are you . . . comfortable with that?" he asked her carefully._

_She paused before answering, feeling the weight of him against her mind, like a warmth that slowly spread rather than anything invasive . . . "Yes," she finally answered, surprised at herself over just how keenly she did not mind. "I am comfortable with that."_

_His posture lessened just slightly, as if he were relieved by her answer. For him, he would only be able to embark on a relationship if it encompassed both sides of him – the mental plane included. Anything else would be less than healthy for him, and the knowledge that she was open to their more alien connection was a relief._

_"Our minds are surprisingly attuned," he said curiously. "Your mind is handling the growth of this as if it something natural to its development," he said with some surprise._

_"I've always been a fast learner," she teased._

_"Indeed," he returned, and she could feel his fond amusement at the back of her mind. When he reached over across his desk to take her hand in his, she felt the bond open just slightly, and the whole of him was something soothing and wondrous against her. Someday, she looked forward to being able to know the heights and depths of him as if they were her own._

She awakened from her dreams to a swirl of gold.

Upon awareness her body stiffened instinctively upon inhaling the mists, and she had to calm herself enough to let herself breathe. She could feel the poison in her mind, crippling her body, and she had to fight the wave of panic that accompanied that.

This wouldn't kill her . . . not unless she gave up, and she refused to do that.

Feeling Spock against her mind the evening before had helped, however little, and she tried to hold onto that peace of mind, knowing that she would need to see her through.

_Calm_, she pushed through her body. She needed to be _calm_.

The more her mind relaxed, the easier it was for her to hear the voices against her mind . . .

When her mind was quiet, she could hear the whole of the hive to fill the spaces of her thoughts with sound. If she concentrated she could hear _everything_ – inquiries between friends and deals between venders and the clamors of large families. There were bickerings and screams and angry words alongside the greetings and the endearments and the worries . . . So many words . . .

_Life_, all around her and overwhelming, shared between a multitude.

It was beautiful, in an alien, _terrifying_ way.

For one moment, she caught the wisps of how one could be lost to the mists . . . So easily.

She was lost in her thoughts when G'rgo entered her small room – nothing more than a stone chamber with a bed and a chest of drawers, but it was enough. The woman was carrying an earthen toned dress in her hands, with small patters on the sleeves and collars that reminded Nyota of the styles of her home.

"The Cea'sri wishes to meet with you," G'rgo said in her hoarse voice, once again speaking aloud for her benefit. "You cannot wear what you are now."

Nyota wasn't one to complain – the material of this dress was scratchy and it irritated her wounds. The one G'rgo held was of a much finer material.

The Cea'sri . . . ruler? It merely meant Supreme in Serillion, and she frowned at such a title within a hive.

"He is merely out voice," G'rgo said to her unspoken thoughts. "He executes the will of the hive."

Ah . . . like M'aarcus?

"More," G'rgo answered uncannily once again. "He is our Whole."

She frowned at the explanation, trying as she was to process everything that was happening to her. This was . . . too much. Too much for her to grasp all at once.

"It becomes easier with time," G'rgo said, and Nyota could feel fondness against the hive connected to her mind. "Over time it becomes essential."

Barely, she felt her mental walls raised, displeased with that line of thinking. A determination stole through her, human and angry within her.

G'rgo smiled, an unkind thing that split over the rough tones of her face. "That too will fade as well."

Nyota was silent as to that, not bothering to reply as she clung to the echo of the bond in her mind. She would not fade away into the mass of the collective so easily, she vowed there and then.

But her thoughts were lost to the multitude that said otherwise.

.

.

"So, what you are saying is that you were able to make a connection?" Jim's voice was frank, free of anything that may have been light and easy.

Spock looked up at the tone, distracted from where he had been pacing by the window. "A slight connection only," Spock answered. "I was able to touch her mind, but there was no coherent thought exchanged between us. It was merely a feeling . . . our bond has not been that . . . _trifle_ since before we were courting."

Kirk nodded, digesting that with a sympathetic look coloring the icy blue of her eyes. "You were able to touch minds with her last night . . . Can you feel her still?"

"Slightly," Spock replied, his voice troubled. "Our connection is nowhere near its full potential – I feel an echo of her only, enough to let me know she lives, and little else."

"Well, that much is good news," Kirk said, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. His jaw was still clenched, and his eyes were narrowed . . . But she was okay for now. For how long that would last would wait to be seen. But for now . . .

He rubbed at his eyes, obviously tired. "I am at a loss of how to proceed," Kirk finally admitted. "There are dozens of clans who could have taken her, and all of which I have no way of infiltrating by the time I do find who took her. And everyone up here has been less than forthcoming . . ."

"There are too many self serving ends being sought," Spock agreed. "It would be unwise to rely on anything they have to say."

Kirk shook his head, and leveled a long sigh. "Things here are a mess. There are too many conflicting points of views, and a cultural mess going back centuries."

Spock blinked – the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. "It would be unwise to assume that one could fix such a rift in one mission, Captain. Such prejudices take time to root from the mind of a species."

Kirk sighed where his friend would not. "There's a leak; that I know for certain. A part of me does not want to rely on the help they offer at any rate – there are too many unexplained occurrences. On both sides."

Spock frowned, pausing his slow pacing to look at the Captain. "You do not think us coming here was out of necessity?"

"I think that the necessity was created," Kirk countered softly. "Why else would this planet come under such scrutiny over the last few months? In that much, at least, M'aarcus was right."

Spock's lips pursed in thought. "And you think the attack was out of retaliation?"

"Perhaps . . . in part," Kirk mused. "There is enough of a prejudice to explain that much alone; but if a part of the Rillion clans agreed to talk with negotiators, and a larger part seethed over the said leak . . ."

Spock exhaled, his thoughts troubled.

"At least, I doubt they would harm Nyota while she is there," Kirk said. "They wouldn't want to harm the proceedings enough to influence it away from their favor."

"They see a Potential in her," Spock said quietly. "It would be useful to have a key player with their thoughts in her mind."

Kirk rubbed his head at that. "And that is where alien worlds throw wrenches in the plans. Stars, but I am starting to sound like McCoy."

Spock raised a brow. "Not quite, Captain."

Kirk snorted. "Well, that is a relief."

"Indeed," Spock gave, his form loosening slightly as he took a seat across from Kirk. He looked thoughtful as he gazed outside of the window, hearing the chime of the wind and the sway of the great glass structures beyond.

"What if I told you," Spock said slowly after the minutes past, as if hesitant to put belief in what he had to say, "that I had an idea of how to return her?"

Jim looked up at him, eyes suddenly clear. "I'd tell you that I'm all ears, Commander."

Slowly, Spock started to outline his idea, and barely, just barely, Kirk inclined his head.

Her body would be useless for her but for dreams, Spock knew. So in dreams he would wait.

.

_._

_"Alright, how do we do this?"_

_She was sitting cross legged on her bed in her dorm room, her body an expectant arch as she leaned forward towards him. She was finding it hard to keep herself from shuffling about too much to quell the antsy feelings itching through her, and her fingers kept clenching and unclenching in a giddy dance against her duvet. Across from her, sitting as primly as one could on a mattress, Spock looked almost amused at her eagerness._

_"It's as simple as this," he said, almost fond as he pressed his fingers against the meld points on her mind. "Are you ready?"_

_She took a deep breath,_

_"Yes."_

_She blinked._

_And she opened her eyes inside his mind._

_It was . . . liquid._

_Molten and flowing and awe inspiring. It was thoughts and feelings, and so, so much. He was . . . so much feeling. Something as fiery as the white light at the core of the world that shined in her mind's eye. Her hands shook against his as she saw his thoughts . . . his memories . . . his cherished moments and his deepest secrets._

_And the all of her was on display as well._

_Gently, after seemingly seconds, though much longer had past, he gently drew away from her, leaving her mind her own once again._

_She blinked, feeling somewhat drowsy. She had a headache in the wake of the meld, but from the research she had done, that was to be expected._

_"It will become easier over time," Spock assured her, still attuned to her in the wake of the mental touch._

_"Over time," she breathed out wondrously._

_He almost smiled, and she reached out to cup his cheek with her hand, unable to completely relinquish the contact between them. At the touch of skin to skin, their bond flared to life – even stronger than it had been before._

_"I can feel you," she whispered. "Your mind . . . the link is more . . . vivid now."_

_Spock inclined his head. "Another side effect," he informed her._

_"A very welcome one."_

_She leaned in to kiss him, when suddenly he pulled away from her. Eyes wide, and almost desperate, he took her wrists in both of her hands._

_"Nyota, I do not have time to explain."_

This was not her memory.

_"Spock?"_

This was not her dream.

_"Listen," Spock interrupted her, his tone almost . . . frantic? The tremor to his voice was the most emotion in his tone that she had ever heard from him before. And it scared her._

In the back of her mind, her memory was trying to tell her something, but she could not yet figure that out . . .

_He leaned forward, and touched his fingers to her psi point, her skin tingling in the wake of his touch. "Parted from me, but never parted," he reminded her. "Remember that."_

"Spock? What are you talking about."

He ignored her, and continued. "Just remember . . . this bond is always there, under any weight, you just need to reach for it. Your senses are my senses, and your thoughts are mine when you open to me . . . remember that."

"Spock . . ."

"Nyota, promise me you will remember this."

"I will," she promised, leaning towards him, wanting to calm him, but unsure how. "Spock, I promise."

He nodded, and started to fade from her.

She reached out towards him . . .

And reached only mist.

When she awakened, her mind was as clear as it could be against the haze of gold encasing it . . . clear enough to keep her thoughts hers and hers alone.

Biting her lip, she understood . . . and knew what she had to do.

.

.

A world away, he opened his eyes from the dreams, his mind cleared past the troubled thoughts that were plaguing him.

She understood.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

.

.

"He approaches," a rough voice hissed in her ears, pushing her from the haze her mind had became and forcing her into awareness.

Nyota blinked against the frantic hum that the hive turned to in her mind. "Who does?"

"The Cea'sri," G'rgo returned, her tone distracted. "We were going to bring you to him, but you cannot be moved until your body adapts to the mist. If it adapts." Here her voice was distasteful, and Nyota caught a strand of memory from her – of arguing and harsh words, and insistences . . .

G'rgo was no more pleased about her being held than she was, it would seem.

G'rgo looked crossly over at her. "I do not wish ill for one the hive values," she said simply. "Your death would be a black spot against us if your mind cannot adjust to the transition."

"Has it ever harmed anyone before?" Nyota asked carefully.

"Yes," G'rgo said simply, refusing to elaborate. Instead she helped Nyota sit upright, pressing pillows behind her back so that her limp form would look somewhat aware. She was unable to turn her head, but she could see her surroundings more easily this way, could watch her keeper with more accuracy than she had been.

G'rgo looked at her critically. "You shall do," she finally muttered. "Perhaps it is best for him to see what is becoming of you."

Nyota raised a brow at the other woman's words, trying to understand what she met before a Rillion man entered her room.

He looked much like J'lius and M'aarcus, although there was a certain slant to his eyes and the panes of his face that distinguished him from the others. His skin was darker, much darker, and in the dim light of her room, the markings that decorated his skin almost seemed to glow in incandescent patterns over his skin.

His eyes were completely gold – nothing in them telling between pupil and iris.

His form was naturally straight with authority, and his chin held haughtily high. And yet, the press of his mind against the hive was almost welcoming; as if he let the whole of the collective stream through him like a river through a canyon.

G'rgo bowed deeply from her waist upon seeing the man. "Cea'sri A'nton," she greeted humbly.

"G'rgo," he returned to her, speaking aloud for the benefit of her, Nyota guessed. Like G'rgo, his voice was rough from long disuse.

G'rgo inclined her head towards her. "And Nyota Uhura."

A'nton turned towards her, his golden eyes curious as he looked her over. Against her mind, she could feel his cautious probe. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Hatchling. Tell me, do you find your accommodations comfortable."

She looked at him incredulously, her mind swimming at his audacity.

"Ah . . . you need not reply," A'nton murmured. "I can hear you well enough." His eyes were still tracing over her, and when he looked at G'rgo, his thoughts against her mind were troubled.

"She is weak."

"The mists, they do not do agree with the alieness of her form."

A'nton frowned. "Many have had trouble adjusting."

G'rgo frowned. "She is not Rillion, nor Serillio," she countered.

"I see," A'nton said, troubled. He looked over at Nyota, this time holding out his hands to her. "If I may?" he inquired, his words kind, but his tone hard in the manner of a man who was used to having his orders met.

She gazed at him, long and slow, before placing her hands in his – much like she did with J'lius.

And she was whisked away into his mind.

With J'lius, she never experience more than the bare surface of the Serillio's latent bond between each other. This . . . this was all strong tides and rapids and thoughts and psyches merging together in the quick and hollow of her to become the whole of her. For a frightening moment, it became hard to think – she could remember her name nor her thoughts while under the influence of the collective . . . There was no room for her while there was the whole . . .

The whole . . .

In a primitive way, it was beautiful. Beautiful in the way that tongues of flame, or the bottom of the ocean was – lovely to look at , and awe inspiring . . . but dangerous, for she wished to burn and drown.

She sucked in a breath, and tried to take her hands away from A'nton, who merely held her tighter.

"Look," he implored. "You need to understand."

Fighting away her fear, and the nausea swimming through her veins, she tried to shield her mind from the whole of the collective – erecting a layer of ice between her and the mass of minds around her. It worked, slightly, and while she still whirled drunkenly under the onslaught, she was not swept away by it.

A'nton said not a word to her shielding, but then, he didn't have to. Time would render her scant defenses unnecessary, he knew that as well as she did . . .

Squaring her shoulders in determination, she opened her eyes to what he had to show her.

Upon feeling she was ready, A'nton let sight leak into her mind . . . and she realized that she was seeing his memories. His thoughts and emotions.

Her fingers tightened over his, almost on a reflex. She was too small a shell for such feeling . . . such emotion. She trembled under the weight of it . . .

"No," A'nton insisted harshly. "You must look . . . you must _see_."

See . . .

She opened her eyes once more and tried to look upon the vast tempest of thoughts and feelings around her.

He was showing her his home. The lower levels of Serillious . . . The forests and the mountains. The vast plains of amber grain and the never-ending falls, so much _more_ than anything Earth could think to offer. He showed her his home, the depths of the mountains, and the clans living within – the natural catacombs that stretched on seemingly forever, and the intricate stone carvings left and made by his people hundreds of generations old . . .

_He loved his world_, she realized with a wash of feeling. _He loved it so dearly_ . . .

It was hard to hate what one fully understood, and almost childishly, she wished that she had never been open to his thoughts in this way. She loved her home as well . . .

"And that is why we need your help," his voice trickled through her thoughts like rainwater on the sand.

His memories twisted and turned, and suddenly she was shown lakes of crystal underneath the mountains . . . Twining and making up the whole of the bedrock, or the core of their world . . .

Dillithium, she realized.

"Yes," A'nton whispered to her mind. "This is what they want."

It was something that couldn't be taken . . . she realized.

On any other world, the ore would have to be mined, the crystal scrapped from the rock and harvested. Here it existed as a second mountain range under the first. It was whole and tangible – some of the Rillion dwellings burrowed right through the core of the crystal as if it were the rock itself.

The hive mind . . . it's resonance was in half because of the ore; to take that away was to take away the means by which the Rillions lived. She felt a part of her fear sobering under the weight of that thought . . . Then, the Serillio leak that no doubt told of Serillious' wealth to the rest of the galaxy . . . It was more than a want for prominence and commerce.

So much more . . .

"Prestige and galactic recognition . . . all at our expense," and here A'nton's voice seethed.

She understood.

Mining in this world would result of the death of the Rillion way of life – it would tear at their collective bond, and that kind of psychic damage . . .

"We would not survive that kind of damage."

No, they wouldn't.

She still felt nauseous, but now for an entirely different reason.

"How do I figure into this?" she questioned onto the mental plane, her voice low.

"You have the eyes and ears of those higher than our world," and here A'nton's voice was fervent . . . rash and almost desperate. "The hive saw your soul, and it saw the fight you could provide for us . . . and so it took. It never seizes a Potential that will not serve the collective to the full. And you . . . your heart was right. The hive knew you would speak on our behalf."

She was silent, trying to collect and keep her thoughts her own.

Yes, she would . .. But she had to make it back first.

"Not yet," A'nton murmured, but soon.

Did he realize that these mists could kill her after too long? Merely days . . .

"You are strong," A'nton insisted. "You will not fall."

But she was also human.

"It is a risk . . . but we cannot let you go until we are sure."

Until she was one of them.

" . . . Yes. I am sorry."

She sank with the knowledge; her head finally aching under the onslaught of so many thoughts and images – none of them her own. Gently, she disentangled herself from the mental plane, and this time A'nton let her go. She was drowsy in the wake of the bond, and she wanted to vomit, if only she could convince her body to move and do so . . .

When she squeezed her eyes shut, her tears smelled sulfuric, overflowing as she was with the mists . . . Her mind was strong, but this was more than her body could handle . . .

Distantly, she felt A'nton leave, and G'rgo take his place. A moment later, there was a damp and cool cloth pressed to her forehead, and she leaned into the comfort almost greedily.

"Your body will fall before your mind," G'rgo hissed, her anger overflowing . . . but not at her.

Nyota took a deep breath, the normally soothing motion painful as she inhaled more of the mist. She didn't answer her keeper as she stared up at the stone ceiling . . . the small bioluminescent lights were dillithium, she recognized now. Stars, but the ore was everywhere . . .

G'rgo took her hand in her own, seeing the human gesture from her memories, and squeezed gently, her presence against her mind almost soothing as she endeavored to keep the hive quiet around her. Nyota tried to smile gratefully, but her mouth was heavy . . . she could not move it.

"Do you miss your family?" she whispered against the other woman's mind. The mental plane was the only one she could converse on now . . . she couldn't speak

"What do you mean?" G'rgo asked aloud.

She would have smiled wobbly, if she could. Her hand twitched, as if fighting the urge to gesture with her words. "Your back . . . I had a friend who had the same markings. You had wings at one point."

"I did," G'rgo said softly.

"I can imagine that they were lovely . . ." she whispered, and for a moment she basked on the memory of the wind beneath her and obeying her as she tried to soar high enough to catch the sun . . .

G'rgo was silent for a long, long moment.

"You should rest now," she murmured, and then she left with a soft flutter of her thoughts on the golden air.

Nyota kept her eyes open, refusing to succumb to the darkness awaiting her. Hesitantly, she reached out, and made sure she could feel no presence past her own in this area . . . The hive was quiet, waiting; she could not be sure if that was G'rgo's parting influence, or not.

Slowly, she pushed through the sea of voices in her mind, once again finding that one line . . . that first voice, glowing like an ember in the ashes of her memories. The others . . . their thoughts; their wishes for her were flames. Quick things that would burn themselves out with the violence of their heat, but underneath . . . if she could hang onto that one ever burning thing, then she could keep her mind her own.

She pushed and pushed, imagined her mind was ice to drive the others away, cool like Spock was . . . and then in her mind's eye she picked up the ember in her hand . . .

And then she breathed life into it . . .

Without warning, their bond swam back into brilliant focus, alive and so, so complete in her mind. She concentrated, spreading the ice so that A'nton and the others could not feel the new presence in her mind. For a moment, she felt so very human and overwhelmed by everything alien around her . . . but then he was there . . . helping her . . . securing her mind as hers and hers alone when she was able to open herself up to him enough for him to recognize the plight she found herself in again.

The night before, she had been able to transmit feelings, emotions and fears.

Just earlier, she had shared her dreams with him.

Now, she could hear him. As if he were beside her.

_Nyota?_ The query was a rushed, chocked sounding thing that made her heart swell and tears prick at her eyes as she heard it.

She reached back out, touched his mind with an assurance, and breathed, "Spock." The sound was hoarse on her chapped lips, but in her mind it was a joyous, rich thing.

His relief was potent, and the fierce rush of emotion that came with it was enough to shake the foundations she had based her feelings on. Physically, she couldn't smile at it; mentally, she was elated at the flood of feeling within her.

_I'm here, I'm here, I'm here_; she repeated like a mantra in her mind. _I'm here . . ._

_Where?_, she answered, concentrating on the memories she had gleaned from A'nton's mind. _Red rock, everywhere. North of a lake shaped like a crescent, A'nton calls it Stre'oy in his mind._

Beneath the mountains

She concentrated, and forced the images from her mind to his . . . The images of traveling, the world seen from cracked eyes combined with the images she had gleaned from the hive mind. Twists and turns, and tunnels that went on for forever. Complete labyrinths with giant, elegant cities that prospered on the ore they were hunted for . . .

_You've come to respect them_, was Spock's surprised query in her mind.

_They just want peace_, she replied. _I am a means to that end_ . . . She didn't hate them – couldn't, when she held them to her mind, so. But she did fear them. She did fear what could become of her in their keep.

She wanted her home as much as they wanted theirs.

_I've offered to plead their case_, she murmured. _They don't trust me . . . they're too far gone. Lost on a higher plane than even the Serillios can communicate with_ . . .

She let her mind spill with her thoughts – her ideas; but Spock stopped her. _Hush, Ashel'veh – later. For now, I need you returned._

She was an officer – it was her duty to care for those she could assist, but her mind was lulled away with thoughts of home – holding him again, feeling complete with his mind in hers as he gleaned what he needed.

_Rest now_, was the whisper against her. _I'll come for you._

She clung to the words; the promise within in. And with that, she let herself drift away.


	6. which then scars, softly

**Part Six: "which then scars, softly"**

"Come now, Hatchling, you must awaken."

As consciousness slowly came to her, she registered the sensation of harsh hands shaking her shoulders, forcing her swimming mind into the land of awareness. Carefully, Nyota tried to will life into her limbs at the harsh insistence that was flowing from G'rgo's mind into hers; unsure as to what was causing such fervor in the other woman.

"Focus, Hatchling – you must force your body."

After five days in the mist, it was hard for her to connect her consciousness to her form. Slowly, she had found it hard to stay awake to stay awake at all, and any sort of menial task was impossible. Even the slightest movement was monumental for her; the slightest breath a slash of pain to her burned lungs. It was much easier to stay under the blackness that beckoned her mind – lost to her dreams and away from the clamor of the hive.

"Hatchling!" G'rgo snapped.

Nyota blinked, and bit her tongue as she felt the burn to her throat and lungs anew. She forced her eyes to stay open, focusing on the cool sensation of G'rgo's fingers on her shoulder.

The rest of her senses came to her as she heard a ruckus from beyond – hissed voices, and the hive a tumultuous maelstrom of thought and feeling in her mind.

"What's happening?" she slurred out her question.

G'rgo turned eyes, black in an alien way, and absent of the gold of the mists on her. "They approach – and it would do well for you to be ready."

She narrowed her eyes, her fingers tightening in the bedclothes as she tried to process G'rgo's answer.

"They?" she asked.

G'rgo tapped the side of her mind. "I have a bond quite like your own, Hatchling . . . someday, it will give me great pleasure to tell you the story – away from these mists that pull you apart."

Away . . . her mind heaved a wistful sigh at the thought.

G'rgo may have smiled; the harsh gesture that lifted her mouth held warmth to it. "Your mental resilience does you well, I cannot . . . I cannot watch that wither down here in the shadows. Now, let me assist you."

Nyota tried to help when G'rgo slipped a hand beneath her back, lifting her upper body aright. When she was sitting as best as she could, G'rgo picked her up gingerly – holding one hand under her knees while the other craddled her back. The other woman was much taller than her – and strong with an alien grace that let her easily accommodate her weight.

Nyota looked at the other woman's face curiously, seeing little of the mists reflected in G'rgo's eyes. Her hand came unsteadily to rest at the corner of the other woman's eyes. "You . . . the hive?"

"I merely needed to witness how one fights to keep themselves whole," G'rgo muttered an answer. "I was able to make contact with he who was lost to us. As he was taken to begin with, I should have been able to see his absence when he was whole to me . . ."

J'lius, she realized with a start.

And if G'rgo was able to make contact with J'lius . . . alongside the information she was able to funnel to Spock . . .

"You're rescuing me?" she asked, and her voice would have been touched and amused had she not been so weak.

G'rgo raised a scaled brow. "What did you think was happening, Hatchling?"

Nyota rasped out a chuckle. "It's hard to think much of anything," she admitted weakly.

She felt a comforting vein leak from the other woman's mind, and into her own, and she leaned into it as if she were a child taking solace from her mother.

"But . . . A'nton?" she tried to protest.

"I shall be far away from the mists," G'rgo muttered, and she felt a pang from the other woman – like an addict who was faced with the long path of coming clean ahead.

"Thank-you," she brushed the thought to her alongside the words, hoping that together the depth of her gratitude would be displayed.

G'rgo's hands tightened over her, and Nyota had the memory of flying from the other woman, every muscle in her body tense as she moved from Nyota's tiny room into the catacomb's beyond.

Around her the hive blazed loud and angry . . . searching. Anger bloomed sharp and insidious in her mind, binding the Rillions together in a thick shroud of hateful determination.

Nyota fought to make her tired mouth grin . . . there was only one presence in this galaxy that could inspire such an outrage.

"Your Captain is resilient," G'rgo answered her unspoken thought. "And . . . stubborn."

Her mind fairly sang with her joy as she reached out, trying to feel Spock's mind alongside the chaos of the alien world.

G'rgo inclined her head. "And his friend . . . with the pointed ears . . . your Nestmate, he has an accurate aim; and anger like cold fire to our senses."

She was too weak to speak any more, but she felt her heart soar with gratitude to her crew for coming for her.

"It is your bond that gives me faith," G'rgo whispered as they walked. Her voice was stronger after speaking aloud, the hoarse scratch of her tones something deep and soothing to her ears now. "You will not let our planet fall . . . You saw A'nton's mind . . . and I feel no anger from you. You would assist us until you ceased to draw breath . . . if only you were given that chance."

It was hard to hate what one knew so intimately . . .

"A'nton fears," G'rgo continued, "and the mists feed his paranoia . . ."

Nyota understood that, at any rate, her own mind swimming and jumping at every shadow they past as they stole through the tunnels.

"His paranoia will kill us all," she scathed, "and it will take the one who can help us the most."

Nyota tried her best to push reassurances towards the other woman, her heart swelling for just the glimpses of the world that she had seen from the hive.

"And yet time for that shall come," G'rgo quieted her mind. "For now, Hatchling, I need you to feel – your Nestmate? He is near?"

As best she could, she pushed the pounding in her head to the back of her mind in order to find the trace in her mind that led to Spock. Concentrating, she breathed life into the link, desperate with her joy as she searched for the other half of her mind . . .

A moment later, she was able to sense him in full and brilliant color past the haze of the hive.

Up ahead; fighting. A ferocity cloaking his mind that was all Vulcan and ancient – as passionate as the inscription on the dagger he had gifted her with. Nothing about his mind felt human in that moment, and she basked in the white hot, searing emotion that was flooring her own mind; cooling all that had frozen in protection against the alien collective around her . . .

"We're close," Nyota breathed.

G'rgo nodded. "I am to take a different route – there are tunnels leading to the surface. There is a shuttle waiting on one of the nearby peaks."

She nodded, understanding. "He can feel me . . . they are following."

"Then all is going according to plan," G'rgo breathed.

No sooner than the words had left her mouth an arrow lodged itself in the tunnel wall just overhead. G'rgo breathed out a curse as she took to running, careful not to jostle the human in her grasp too much. When she came to a bend in the tunnel, she looked over her shoulder, and thought for a moment, her entire body tense as warcries from her brethren approached her ears.

"Stay here, Hatchling," G'rgo ordered as she sat her down against the wall of the catacomb. Her mind was pained as she reached into her dress to pull out a very familiar dagger. She pressed it into Nyota's hands, which could hardly grasp the weapon, let alone use it to fight.

G'rgo left her, but Nyota could feel her form just around the bend, standing her ground as she fought those who dared to come near.

She was simply buying her time . . .

The knowledge did little to alleviate the frantic pounding of her heart in her chest as she listened to the sounds of the battle beyond; her mind alive with so much – the anger of the living, and the pain of those wounded. She reached out to Spock; and pushed the danger she was in to him in one tumultuous rush of feeling.

Against her mind, she felt him moving; his anger suddenly palpable to her senses.

The fighting right beyond her took on a new ferocity, and she felt it tingle in her bones as it raged on just outside her senses . . .

And then there was silence.

Against her mind, such a relief pushed towards her a familiarly strong pair of hands came out to grasp her shoulders.

"Nyota?"

She opened her eyes to the glorious sight of Spock peering at her in concern. His eyes were full – fuller than she had ever seen them; dark with emotion and some anciently primitive matter that she couldn't identify in their depths. There was a shade of graying purple staining the flesh around his eyes – he had not slept. His hair was mused from the fight, and green blood scraped his skin in harsh patterns from where he had not escaped unscathed from the alien ferocity around him.

She wanted so badly to raise her hands and hold him – to make her senses sing with the affirmation of his presence. She was desperate to touch him; to assure her body as well as her eyes that he was here, he was really here.

"T'nash k'hat'n'dlawa, n k'sil kwon-sum tfu du," his speech slipped into his native tongue at the turbulence of his thoughts; and a high form of Vulcan, at that – one which she had to pause to completely translate.

He would always come for her . . .

_K'hat'n'dlawa . . ._

Half of his soul.

She almost desperately wanted to kiss him in that moment; the action made impossible by the mask covering his face. At the thought from her mind, he reached into the bag over his shoulder, and pulled out one for her. Gently he placed it over her mouth, granting her her first full breath in three days. The fresh oxygen over her burned throat hurt like nothing she had ever felt before, but almost immediately she could feel her body leech greedily on the clean air granted to her.

Her fingers tightened over his arms at the thought, grateful in so many ways as she was . . .

Against the back of her mind, she felt a tickle of the hive; a warning . . .

Alarmed, she trained her eyes behind Spock, her vision adjusted already to the darkness uncannily well.

In the end, her body moved without her telling it to; using the surge of adrenaline and the promise of fresh air and freedom to press the catch on the blade still in her hand and send it flying.

The Rillion warrior did not stand against the poisoned tip; and she bore no remorse as she saw him fall.

The same apathy was in Spock's eyes as he looked at the corpse she had leveled. When he picked her up she sank into his hold gratefully as he breathed, "Let's go home, Ashal'veh."

She burrowed into him, as if she were close enough to him, then no one would ever be able to part them again . . .

Slowly, lulled as she was by the soothing cadence of his pulse, and the grace of his stride, she let herself fall away again; sure that when she awakened, she'd have left this nightmare far behind her.

.

.

"She has severe Discosphiousoxide poisoning, and scaring on her lungs from where she was breathing that damned stuff in for too long. She has a few fractured ribs – from the initial fight, I'd guess, and a broken wrist from landing on it odd. The marks you see on her arms and legs are superficial, for the most part – curious inspections only. There are a few deeper ones that may scar, but I can take care of that."

The Doctor's words landed on hollow, unhearing ears. He could feel Nyota's pain for the whole of her imprisonment, and he understood the basics of her injuries, if not the particulars. He had been able to feel where she hurt, but not how or why . . .

At the moment, it took everything in him to rest patiently at her side as McCoy went about his business.

His whole body was still on high alert; the tempestuous of his emotions like a caged animal inside the ever lessening strands of his control. The fighting had helped alleviate the pressure on his emotions; as had seeing her again, touching her . . . The days while they had planned with J'lius, rigging equipment to work in the mists, and grouping together those willing to brave unfriendly odds to rescue on of their own – he owed a debt to Lieutenant Johnson for the resiliency of his squad, and to his Captain for his sheer stubbornness and inventive thinking . . .

And yet that would all come later.

For now, he was standing just a step away from Nyota, wishing to hold and sooth her, but standing tall and cold while the Doctor looked her over – it was McCoy's attention she needed now, and not his own lack of control.

The Vulcan part of him was still simmering under his surface, to the point where he did not even like McCoy's hands on Nyota as he worked to treat her injuries. Ancient practices would have left this his right – washing the memory of enemy hands away as he washed the dirt and blood from her, and wrapped her injuries himself . . . He felt the urge to touch, to make sure that she was whole and well; physically, even as her mind was content past the exhaustion that kept her delirious and drowsy.

These instincts, while not the care and concern behind them, were new to him; and he had to clench his hands to fight against them.

McCoy remained ignorant to his thoughts as he finished with the process that knit back together her fractures and broken bones. Nyota grimaced in her sleep at that; and Spock could feel her pain in his mind. He was tired of the emotion from her, and inside he had to quell the violent urge to snatch the device from McCoy's hands. He would require extensive meditation to revert the primitive plane his mind had resorted to in able to function at all . . . He thought logically, reminding him that the short pain would save her the long-term discomfort of regrowing the bones the natural way. This way, she's merely have skin and muscle, newly healed, that would be sore for a few days. The gashes and incisions would heal quicker, but the marks would take longer to fade.

Even modern medicine could not fight against the poisoning and the chemical scarring within her lungs. She'd need time for that – and the haze that still covered her mind. She'd be weary for quite some time.

And he'd be there to help her though – she knew that as well as he did, and it was that knowledge that kept her content and calm underneath the residual effects of her trauma. That knowledge . . . her trust in him . . . humbled him. More than she would ever know.

"That should do it for now," McCoy said softly. "I'll wait to give her her next round of hypos until after she's cleaned up a bit – Nurse Chapel can help her into a sonic shower, or -"

"- I'll assist her," he said without thinking. He was loath to leave her yet, and his instincts were clamoring at him to heal her in any way he could.

McCoy shrugged, his sharp eyes kind. "Whatever you think will be best for her," he acquiesced. "I'll have Chapel get something more cozier for her than that tattered . . . thing . . . she's wearing, as well. I need to replicate a hypo for the poison, and I'll be done with that by the time you are."

Spock nodded once; sharply.

"And . . . we're all glad to have her back, Spock," McCoy said gently, and Spock could feel the turmoil inside of the human. "And . . . we're glad to have you back, too."

"I thank-you, Doctor," Spock said softly.

McCoy nodded, and put Nyota's chart down. He paused once, before leaving, and Spock had an uncomfortable moment where it looked as if the Doctor would have patted his shoulder in a comforting way – much the same as he would have done for Kirk, or any other of the crew.

Nyota would have been proud, he thought, bemused.

On the biobed, just starting to rouse herself from her drug induced sleep, Nyota mumbled, "It's so nice to see you two playing nice."

"For your sake," he said softly, his eyes full even as his tone filled with warmth. He knew that she'd be able to hear it . . . as she always did. "How do you feel?" he asked, meaning his inquiry in more ways than one.

Her eyes were wide, and glassy with tears. "Lousy," she said. "And I'm guessing if I look like I feel, I look like hell . . ."

"Illogical," he whispered, trying to keep a tight sort of emotion from his voice, "seeing as how the whole concept of hell is metaphysical; and you resemble nothing of fire or brimstone . . ."

"Cheeky Vulcan," she murmured, her eyes fond. Her strength was slowly returning to her, letting her run her hands over the bandages on her skin . . . her hands stopped at the coarse fabric that covered her, and her face turned in distaste.

"Perhaps it is time to get you cleaned up," Spock said gently.

She looked up at him gratefully, and he paused to revel in the feeling at having her mind once again open and whole before him. His mind had not been content without hers; his thoughts had been chaos, and his every balance unable to be struck without her guidance . . .

How quickly she had become something integral to him.

"Right back at you, hon," she slurred tiredly, her eyes tired even as her mind sang with affection against his.

She needed rest, he knew. Rest, and a time to heal.

But first . . . Easily, he slipped her slight from into her arms, frowning when he realized just how much weight she had lost during her ordeal. She was nothing more than a feather in his grasp; something he clung to greedily, as if daring the winds to snatch her from him again.

_I'm not going anywhere_, her mind whispered against his, concerned for him when she should have been focusing on herself.

Content with the feel of her in his arms, he bypassed the sonic showers, instead heading to an old-world design at the back of the sick-bay quarters where water still flowed. The room was large for a spaceship accommodations, and he commanded the lighting to lower so that her eyes, used to little sun and mountain tunnels, wouldn't be strained. His hands trembled as he peeled the strange sort of sack like garment from her, his face turning in anger and rage when he saw where the shift clung to her injuries, irritating the skin underneath.

Her thin hands clung to his shoulders for strength, and her limbs shook with the effort of disrobing. He tried to help her as much as he could, speaking soothingly of anything that came to mind, even as his mind enveloped hers in a warm cocoon of warmth and devotion.

He threw the garment to the ground, and the savage desire to burn the thing echoed from his mind to hers until he was unsure who had had the thought in the first place.

_Mine, mine, mine_ . . . he thought as he helped her underneath the warm spray. She was able to sit on a ledge built specifically for patients who couldn't stand; and leaned her head against his chest as he set about washing every inch of her skin. His hands traced the paths that the others had – theirs curious and cruel; his cleansing and claiming. She was his, and he would protect her . . . he was so sorry for where he had failed; and his sorrow built as he traced the long marks on her body with his fingers.

She clasped her fingers over his when they loitered over a gash on her side, high on her rib-cage. It would scar if not treated against it . . . He let his thumb pass soothingly over the mark under hers before leaning in to lightly brush his lips against the wound. She closed her eyes, and shuddered in his hold, her emotions a tempestuous swirl against his own as her thoughts played and fed off of his own. Eventually, he could tell not where his mind ended and hers began, and that blurred line helped sooth him as much as feeling her, solid and returned beneath his touch, did.

She leaned into him, grateful, and when her tears fell to mingle with the spray, he wiped them away with a thumb regardless of what was tears and what wasn't.

When her eyes started to droop closed, he turned off the water. He dried her next, taking care to gently pass the cloth over her injuries before dressing them as McCoy had instructed. Nurse Chapel had left clothes for Nyota – her favorite jersey from home, and a pair of regulation sweats. Nyota hated wearing hospital clothes, he remembered from the few times when her injuries from away missions insisted on it before.

He dressed her, mumbling soothingly to her as her mind pulsed with contentment against his; and by the time he finished combing her hair and tying it back for her, she was loitering right on the line between sleep and consciousness.

He carried her back to the biobed that had been remade for her, and placed her within as he may have done for a child; his hands gentle on her as he caressed her whenever he could; wiping away the touches of the last few days with soothing ones to remember. He needed to touch her as much as she needed to feel him, it would seem . . . her mind fairly reverberated against his. She was an open book to him, even easier to read than normally . . . he could forever be lost in the words of her . . . the masterpiece . . .

He traced a hand fondly over her cheek as another hand tucked in the covers around her. Her skin was smooth now, the red dust gone, and the haunted look in her eyes had lessened ever so slightly. She was looking more like _Nyota_ again, and a part of himself soared with the knowledge.

She held his hand against her skin, and leaned into the touch as she breathed out, "thank-you" against his skin.

"There is no thanks necessary, Ashal'veh," he whispered in return. "I have nowhere else I'd rather be . . . I . . . I felt fear while you were gone, Nyota . . . a fear that was stronger than any control I could exercise . . . I . . . I could have lost you."

"To think of the what-if is human," she teased gently, her voice a rasp from the burning in her lungs. "Is that logical?"

"It is something that I cannot seem to shake myself of," he confessed. Her fingers tightened over his as she leaned into him.

"I was scared too," she admitted, and he could feel her heart hammer in his pulse.

"I will always come for you," he vowed, something low and urgent in his tone.

"I know," she said, tears making her eyes large and luminous.

Unable to leave her just yet, he gave in to the illogicality of his desires, and gingerly climbed into the small bed with her. The surface was narrow, only made for one, but they made do as she threaded herself through him as if she were thread to a loom. He held her close, unwilling to let her go, and listened as her breathing slowed and finally evened out; granting her body the healing salve of sleep and dreams.

And, when he could resist no more, he followed her.


	7. left standing after a fall

**Part Seven: "left standing after a fall"**

She awakened to the scent of coffee.

Blinking her eyes against the soft light of the medbay, Nyota tried to will enough life into her limbs to be able to return her senses to the land of consciousness. Her body felt warm and tingly – a sensation she had not awakened to in days . . . and a scent she had sorely missed.

Oh, stars, but she was _home_.

"The perfect welcome home gift, hon," came the sweet voice of Christine Chapel, and Nyota smiled at the obvious pleasure in her friend's tone.

When she found that her limbs weren't exactly assisting her, Christine helped her move into a sitting position, her hands gentle as she piled the pillows behind her back to make her comfortable. Even while she hated the weakness of her body, Nyota was ecstatic to be weak somewhere other than those mountain depths.

As soon as she was able Christine passed her the cup of coffee – a smooth and rich brew that was different than the dark 'tar' that she was fond of drinking. Knowing that the acidity of her usual fare would do more harm than good, she smiled gratefully at the richness of the brew she held. It was expertly made – and she could taste hazelnut lining the edges from the creamer.

"Aw, Christine, you shouldn't have," she breathed reverently – had it really been five days since she had indulged in this?

"It wasn't from me," Christine said, a playful twinkle to her eyes. "A certain Commander was sure to pass along some specific instructions before he left – I am merely following orders."

A warm feeling filled her at Christine's words, wafting up through her body and opening the link in her mind. He wasn't far from her – on the bridge, and welcoming the official Federation Ambassadors who would take over negotiations on Serillious, from the sound of it.

They'd be gone soon, she realized, a myriad of conflicting emotions rising in her as she realized that. On one hand, she would be happy to leave Serillious, and never think of it again. On the other hand, after having her people so intimately wrapped within her mind . . .

She could not leave them without helping.

She was lost in thought while Christine bustled around doing Doctor-ish things; checking her vitals, and scanning the bones that had been knit back together. While she worked she filled Nyota in on everything she had missed – Kirk's manhandling of Llious and M'aarcus, and his plotting. Spock's singleminded determination and loose alliance formed with J'lius in order to get her back where she belonged.

As always, her crew's loyalty and hard work – even after four years, astounded her.

"You should have seen your man in action, too," Christine breathed fondly. The other woman had the edges of a southern cadence to her voice when she was particularly emotional about anything – it was a nuiance, that Nyota doubt others could hear, and one that she had to fight from teasing her dear friend about. "He was all an unstoppable force, and an unmovable object put together – none of us had ever seen him like that. I know Kirk was worried for him, and McCoy even went behind everyone's back to talk to a few Vulcan healers about Spock's mental state. I know you know that their control isn't about emotions so much as it is about their physio health – and McCoy gets that a great deal more than he'll ever admit."

Nyota clutched her coffee mug tighter in her hands, awe threading through the whole of her as she could feel his awareness at the back of her mind – their bond had grown exponentially in their time apart, it would seem.

"It took some twisting for McCoy to find someone willing to talk – but when he did, apparently what Spock was going through was an ancient reaction – Vulcans of old were fiercely possessive and nearly violent over their bondmates. And this new breed that follows Surak isn't any different under all of their control – and then, throw in human emotions on top of that . . ." Christine's voice trailed off, her tone thoughtful. "It was beautiful to see, even though our hearts broke for you two. I don't know . . . I don't know what would have happened if he wasn't able to get you back . . ."

Nyota took a deep breath at that, trying to remind herself that that hadn't happened – it would take a bit more than what they had faced to tear them apart.

She was almost finished with her coffee when the doors to the medbay opened to reveal Spock and the Captain – both of which who looked tired, but smiled with their eyes.

"Lemme tell you, Nyota – there was no getting some honest work out of this man until he had stopped to see you," Kirk chuckled, his eyes kind as he carefully looked her over.

"Captain, if you are implying that my work suffered in the time I spent apart from her -"

"Oh, never that, Spock," Kirk said most carefully as he stepped over to her side. Unable to hug her as he would have preferred to, he instead took her hand an breathed and gentlemanly kiss to the top of it. "It's good to have you back – your Vulcan here has been quite incorrigible in your absence."

Nyota smiled at her Captain. "It's good to be back, Sir."

"Don't be going away any time soon, now," Kirk said, holding her one hand in both of his, and if she didn't know him any better, she'd have attributed the sheen to his eyes as unshed tears.

"I'll do my best, Captain," she said gently.

Kirk nodded once, sharply, as if he didn't trust his voice.

When he stepped away to compose himself, Spock took the spot that Kirk had vacated. Still and serene with their audience, she could nonetheless feel the great wash of his emotions against their bond, and she marveled at the power of it – akin to an actual meld as compared to what they had shared before.

Amazed, she looked at him in awe at the feelings washing through her.

Kirk smiled gently at that. "I think that that's our cue to leave, Chapel," Kirk said to the giddily smiling Nurse. "Let's find that Doctor of yours – and then we'll come back."

Christine smiled gently at them both, and then left with Kirk.

She could feel Spock's relief at their departure. His control was still tremulous, at best, and he didn't care to show the height and depth of his feelings before an audience. Needing the feel of his skin against hers, she placed her coffee mug down, and took both of his hands in her own, knowing how sensitive they were to touch.

He took a breath, deeply in and out; and against her mind she could feel himself centering again.

Everything had changed, she knew. And yet, for all of the black moments that that had been the catalyst, she could not quite bring herself to regret them . . .

She didn't expect any flowery words from the silent man at her side – inside her mind, but the whole of him opened and bare before her was more than she could ever want.

"I know," she whispered silently to the swirl of thoughts against her mind. "Oh, don't I know . . ."

Together they stood like that for a long, long time.

.

.

The next few days were of little joy for her.

Her body had caved while her mind had held strong. And while it was easy for her bones to knit together, her muscles had turned useless in those few days of disuse and taxation for the poison in her system. The physical therapy had been demeaning and strengthening at the same time – and with such a crew at her back, she found it easy to get better.

Midway through her first day back, Kashore had called her in near hysterics – with her mother adding in her two cents every other syllable. Apparently, Spock had kept them informed every step of the way – and her father once again commended her on her choice when he was able to get a word in past his wife and daughter. Nyota stayed and talked to him the longest about her ordeal – and what she had learned. As a seasoned linguist – past even her own skill – he had a fresh perspective, and she couldn't wait to hear him give his thought by thought review on her findings.

Spock had been just a few feet away, sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs of the medbay and doing his work on PADDs; and she could feel his amusement at her family's interaction.

Her lungs were the hardest thing to heal; and when McCoy said that she may have a rasp to her speech for near a year, she felt determination steal through her to get her vocal cords back in the top shape she was used to. Her exercises and salves sounded funny, but she was willing to do anything to get her 'talented tongue' back.

Over those days everyone from the crew seemed to stop by and see her – Lieutenant Johnson even brought her a vase of Serillion Lilies upon hearing from Spock they were her favorite. No doubt the security chief felt guilty over her being taken, and was making up for something he couldn't control.

Kirk got under the other man's skin by bringing a bouquet bigger and brighter – with balloons.

Sometimes, the Captain was just a child.

And yet, it was her crew's collective support that helped her through the less than spectacular times after her return. Dark times when she jumped at shadows and panicked when she could feel Spock turn away from the bond in her mind to keep his attention on his work.

Some things, would take more time to completely heal, she knew.

On her second day, Nyota was able to have a short video conference with G'rgo – she was thrilled that the woman escaped unscathed, and the two traded stories until she was told by McCoy that any further conversation would harm her lungs and vocal cords.

But even that short conversation was enough to let her mind start whirling with ideas. Left alone, she picked up the stylus and the PADD left to her, and started to write.

.

.

Six months later, she returned to Serillious to speak in behalf of the planet's populace.

After being rescued the last time, she had not stepped foot on the planet afterward; much more content to conduct her business with video conferencing from the safety of the Enterprise.

It was odd descending through the clouds to see the forests shine beneath her once again. The jungles were beautiful to her eyes after being so deeply embedded in her memory; and it was not only her own affection she felt – but everyone whose mind was still imbedded in her own. The hive whispered against her mind as soon as she broke the atmosphere, but it did not feel malevolent to her senses . . . so much as it welcomed back one of her own.

They knew why she had returned, and the collective embraced her as one of their own.

Already she could feel the planet healing itself – there was more of a Serillio presence against her mind, and the Rillion faction was . . . calmer. Confident of the future.

When she entered the Conference Hall, she could feel J'lius and G'rgo watching her – the latter of which had concluded her rehabilitation from the mists a month ago. On her back, growing from the scars were buds which would someday be a new air of wings – McCoy had looked her over before they left Serillious the first time, and was able to impart his theories to the Serillio doctors before he left, resulting in advancement of treatment that would result in prompting the body to heal itself.

Nyota herself had kept in contact with G'rgo in their time apart. The woman was a natural teacher, and Nyota learned much about the Serillio and Rillion dialects. Already she was publishing her findings on emphatic tongues and hive collectives, and she had many professors and Xenolinguists on budding planets who were anxious for more information from her.

The end of their five year mission was approaching, and Nyota was seriously considering diving into the more research oriented aspects of her Major, sure that there were thousands like Serillious that she could help.

For now, Serillious itself was making progress. Those corrupt who had sought to destroy their Rillion brethren – and doing so by the Federation's hand – had been removed from power, and a hopefully more open leadership installed from the Serillio portion. In the end, M'aarcus had been able to convince A'nton to step away from the mists to meet with the Serillio in person, and the harsh man's fears were starting to lessen as both sides got to know each other anew.

The Mining Guild still wished for rights to mine on Serillious, and they were a heavy faction inside the Federation. The whole of Starfleet retrieved their fuel and dilithium from the Guild, and they were unwilling to make such an enemy by denying them Serillious. The debate had not been pretty, she knew. Sometimes . . . sometimes smaller planets were sacrificed for the whole of the greater good, she knew, but she was determined to see this planet away from that awful statistic.

The negotiating council had agreed to hear her speak her piece, and she was thankful to that – hopeful that her words, and her research would help assist the tides to turn in the favor of Serillious, rather than the greedy hands that would tear her apart.

She spend who knew how long outlining her research – the properties of the ore that enabled the hive, and the richness of the world around them. She called on the memories at her grasp to tell tales of the planet's beauty and great wealth – and to the people, not to those who would seek to destroy her.

After her allotted hour of speech, she ended with a long pause and pointed look at the Ambassador's and world leaders of Serillious.

"I know that this planet holds richness – but their wealth is not in their dilithium," she said carefully, her heart in her throat. "There wealth is in their people. This planet is unique in the manner that every mind is linked – they feel each other's strengths, their weaknesses, their hopes and their fears. And together they move forward for a stronger future.

"I know many who could learn from their symbiotic way of life. Really, all of us can.

"It is the dilithium that creates the bedrock of this planet; and generates the psychic fields necessary fro such a planetwide meld. If you were to take this away from them – then you may as well slaughter the first. It will be a painless death in comparison to what you would do.

"So, please consider admitting Serillious as a planet to protect; and not to plunder."

She finished her speech to the sound of applause – grudging respect was in the eyes of those from the Mining Guild, and a heartfelt thanks sang from the minds of the Serillions to hers.

As she turned, Spock discretely gave her his arm to lean on – knowing how such a feat taxed her still healing vocal cords.

But it had been worth it.

She could feel the hive around her, cocooning her mind, rather than entering it. Above that she could feel the pride from the man at her side, enfolding her in the whole of him . . . Breathing deep the alien air, she entwined her hand through his, and walked confidently on.

**FIN**


End file.
